


the great procrastinator

by jfk



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 160,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/jfk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout and his string of lovers find themselves at odd with the universe. Warnings for mpreg and porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

He's going to regret this.

Even in the throes of passion, when the world is salted with stars and his breathing sings song his lips don't even know the words to: he knows it's a mistake.

He graces the error, at least, by finishing up with a cry drowned in the boy's shoulder, his mind blurry, unable to see anything coherent but regret. See, the only thing easier than Scout is saying'yes'.

He thinks on his sins, hazy in the rosy afterglow. He never propositions, but only ever obliges. See, he's good; he only does what the boy asks of him, no questions asked, no eyebrows raised. Scout never complains, or says much of anything in moments like these. To him, this isn't new or special, it doesn't really mean anything.

But what a wonderful means to an end.

Scout says 'thanks' like it's a transaction after a long, breathy silence. When he musters the energy, the boy cleans himself off, and dresses in no hurry. With practise, too, easing his shirt on and rolling his shoulders. The agreement is silent, but the terms are very explicit.

"You can stay, y'know," Is all he says to Scout. What is he supposed to say? Scout has heard all of the lines, and from everybody. There isn't anything that will surprise him, aside from frank earnestness perhaps. They aren't there yet.

The boy finds the audacity to laugh, and he stretches, mewling. It's gorgeous. "Yeah, sure. I know." That's all he departs with. No kiss, no 'goodbye', not even a proposition to conclude the tryst they just enjoyed. The door closes behind it, and Scout leaves with all of his affections, leaving Sniper alone in his sheets.

He rolls onto his stomach and smokes three cigarettes in a row. Staring at the ceiling, he sighs.

"Shit,"

-

Trashy rock-and-roll, loose morals, cheap liquor, fast breaths, no talk.

Sometimes it's like this.

But that's okay. Scout likes it fine like this: likes the feel of Spy's nails raking down his back, likes being told he's a slut, or something like that in french, italian, latin, whatever it is, it's nice. He likes his hair being pulled sometimes, likes to be fucked like a whore to a sailor, no sweet talk, and no kissing.

Sometimes this is all he needs, whining like a schoolboy, spanking, powerplay, finally in control and riding in long, drawn-out thrusts, shoving Spy down with the tips of his fingers, clawing him, throwing his head back and breaking his voice with the raw force of the sensation. Crucified Christ, Spy is always right there, and he hurts as much as he hungers for this: and it's like cliff-diving when he goes, drawing as much blood from Spy as he can, hissing in delight, back arched, toes curled, numbing in the lambency of his orgasm.

Affected by the sight, Spy follows him, unable to see Scout so unashamedly wanton, so unguarded and hedonistic -the little slut- and he grits his teeth as if not to let the boy win, bleeding his own orgasm completely dry of pleasure, too lust-addled to feel the sheer sting of Scout's nails, he has such useful, devious hands.

Sometimes Scout wants to stay here, like this, caught in the breath of another man, who wants him, who looks at him. Only in these moments does Scout ever get to feel rue pride, does he get to think 'I did all of that'. Spy is completely incapacitated, for just a moment, ignoring the blossoms of poppy-red blood on his torso.

They both have telltale marks that will be seen in the showers. Scout wants them all to see. He thinks, with a smirk, that they'll see because they look at him. They want him, all of him. And they can have him, too.

Still wordless, Spy sits himself up and lights a cigarette, one-handed. He offers one to Scout, still without words, because that isn't their deal. Whatever else goes on outside of this microcosm, of his bed, is irrelevant, and should the world come down, should Scout be dying at heart, he keeps it in.

Their agreement is strictly carnal. Symbiotic: neither party can complain. So Scout takes the cigarette.

He doesn't smoke very much, but sometimes Sniper offers him one in such good faith, it seems such a shame to say no. And he's told he has a pretty mouth, despite the noise, so the attraction of attention can't hurt. Scout's actually bad at smoking, which is ironic. He takes too much in, or not enough, or burns himself.

After a drag that feels long enough, Spy laughs at him.

"Take it slow, mon cher," Scout doesn't have the energy to be venomous. Satiated, he makes for his shirt and rests the cigarette in an ashtray while he dresses, not really desiring another go. Spy's eyes are on him the whole time, and his face is turned. Scout has his full attention, and his bare face, which is rare. A privilege.

When he turns back around to face Spy, now hastily dressed, the man is offering him a pack of french cigarettes. From the neat gold foil to the red casing, they don't look cheap. "Yours," Spy says, calmly. "For services rendered."

Two empty glasses on the nightstand. Half-dead cigarette, expensive smokes, french lover, paid in full.

Sometimes it's like this.

-

Other times, it goes something like this:

Silence. The hum of the generator, a small squeak of birdsong, footsteps on tile floor and the breathing of a man concentrating. Purposeful smashing of something glass. A curse in harsh german, almost always followed by the words "Verdammt, saukerl!"

That roughly translates into Scout breaking something.

And Scout, as he always does, makes an elaborate pantomime of innocence, with overly-auspicious 'sorrys' and insincere gestures. Sometimes, for good measure, he throws in an empty promise to replace said broken item/ruined paperwork/damaged equipment.

That always facilitates sex. It could be anything, an awkward rut, being thrown against a wall, fucking through the stars on Medic's desk.

But today is different. It starts with a whimper.

Before Scout is halfway into the infirmary, he sees a large hand wave him off in a non-committal gesture.

"I am working." Medic says, plainly, although it sounds more like 'vorking' because of his sharp native accent. "Go away," Of course, he doesn't really mean it. Not to Scout. And if he does, he's not allowed to today.

Scout keeps on walking towards the desk. He's cradling his wrist, unable to move it though the pain of a particularly nasty fall. Medic isn't looking at him yet, though, and it makes Scout a little angry. He's being upstaged by paperwork, and as if to ass insult to this injury, Medic still isn't looking at him.

With his good arm, Scout taps two fingers on the wood of the desk. "Doc," Is all he says.

Medic still doesn't look up. He waves a hand again, bare of it's usual residency in a glove. That one curled hair of his fringe is slipping further in front of his face because he still hasn't given Scout the courtesy of eye contact. "I said I am working." He says, again, just as stiff and plain. "Come back later, bitte."

Scout doesn't like breaking their usual format. He despises being ignored so much that with his left hand, he flattens a palm over the paper Medic is focusing hard on and makes a fist, reducing the paper to a bettered sheet of gibberish.

Without flinching, Medic brushes Scout's hand out of the way, coldly, and tries to ready the piece beneath it.

He knows how to pay this game a little too well.

Scout flattens his palm onto the other piece, furious, until he sees a glint of metal, and a scalpel is stabbed into the wood of the desk, between his fingers.

He retracts his hand faster than he's done anything in a while. But finally, he has Medic's attention.

The older man adjusts his glasses and looks very angry for a second. The muted thunder in his eyes disintegrates when he sees Scout's limp, purple wrist. His face is overcome with concern and worry. And Scout can't be angry, because he sees genuine care.

Now, he's all Medic can think about.

The older man tuts. "What have you done to yourself this time, spatz?"Even is voice is now the softer for speaking. Maybe this concern is only a product of the sex, or maybe the sex is a product of actual love: Scout can't establish causality, but his chest swells with pride to know he's wanted right now. He is cared about.

He is also in a great deal of pain. "I think it's broken."

Medic guides him to the examination table and Scout sits, like he did on his first day here. Only then, he was in just his underwear, grumbling at every fickle twitch the strange Medic made. He has grown to love these movements.

With skill, Medic undoes the wrappings of the boy's hand. The skin is red and purple and his hand is at an angle that should be excruciating. Scout is trembling, not just because of the injury, but if he were asked, he'd blame the temperature in the infirmary, not dissimilar to that of a morgue.

Without even flinching, Medic fixes a hard grasp around the wrist and straightens it. The agony comes in staccato bursts, and Scout actually cries out.

"Jesus!" He retracts his hand childishly, hating to break their routine, hating this lack of control. At last, with all things carnal, he knows where he stands. What are the implicit rules here? How does he know if he's broken one? "That's still tender, y'know." He mumbles, glaring up at Medic.

"Don't be such a baby about it," Medic scolds him, with the patience of a Saint. It must be said that his patience is by no means infinite, so Medic takes Scout's wrist again and straightens it once more, looking at him with level eyes.

"A baby," Scout says, resentfully.

"Ja," Medic is feeling around to get a better idea of the fracture. He could just heal it up now, and Scout could go and save them both the awkwardness. There are a million better things he could be doing right now. Hell, a million better people because Medic is-…

He's so pretty. And he knows so many words. His eyesight isn't too sharp but he should be able to see that Scout is too young, and flightly and fickle and impulsive and cold. He should be able to see that this isn't special. This is just part of a large chain.

And yet, Scout has never thought this way about Spy.

Lost in thought, he awakes from his reverie in a haze of pinkish convalescence, having his bones stitched together like arts and crafts to the older man. The pain dulls and then extinguishes completely, until movement is completely restored.

And now Medic is looking at him like he asked a question and Scout doesn't want to be rude so he just says, "What?" In a voice that sounds oafish and dumb.

"You have something else on your mind, yes?" Medic lops back around the room and sits at his desk again, a busy man. Not usually too busy though. They're never too busy. "I asked you how you broke it." He blinks. "Your wrist."

Scout scratches the nape of his neck, glad to have function of his good hand back. "I took a fall. Figured my hand could take it," There is a dangerous blues, or fondness, in the look he's being given. Scout nods. "You're busy. I should-"

He counts backwards from five as he goes towards to door. Gets to three, just about, before he's stopped, spun around and kissed furiously by Medic, and believe it, the man knows how to convince anyone. There is such latent passion and energy, and it surprises Scout every time, paralysed in one parts surprise at the passion, and two parts utter delight.

There's something about captivating the attention of the older man. One who should have seen it all, and done it all: one that still wants Scout.

The kiss deepens, and suddenly, there are hands and broad easy touches and he can feel the utter resignation of Medic's kiss, and this promise that his attentions will always be Scout's.

It's not usually like this, but Scout like it best when it is.

-

The light has turned from rosy to lilac. Scout is alone, just this once, and he likes the quiet fine for now. A radio to his left is just about picking up another cheap surf tune, and on the fence, three cans are perched.

He draws, exhaling slowly, and squeezes the trigger. The gun cracks with the shot and the recoil throws the butt of the rifle further into Scout' shoulder. By the time he has recovered from the shot, he looks up to see that he has missed.

"Aw, shit," He digs his heels into the dirt and watches the dust scatter. It's not his job to be precise, but it's good practise, and there's something pleasurable about destruction, even in the most innocuous way. Scout draws again and looks at the other can, it's colours near-glowing in the dark, cheap and nasty.

"You shouldn't-"

Scout lets out a small yelp of surprise, the gun cracking as his fingers tense, the shot trailing way over the can. That scared the hell out of him, and Scout isn't too easily scared. Catching the ends of his breath, Scout doubles over, placing a hand on his thundering heart.

"Christ." He gasps, still breathless, staring at the offending Sniper. "You might wanna warn a guy," Sniper keeps on towards him with his velvet tread, never making a noise. It eerie is what it is, likely from practise in Australia, during this whole other life that Scout sometimes gets a glimpse of. Never for long, though. Sniper is aloof by nature: he keeps himself very much to himself.

"Didn't mean to scare you," He says. Scout's happy enough to look at him. A cigarette is limp in his lips, his eyes are visible to the world but shaded by his hat and he looks a little like a cowboy kid. Scout either wants to be him or fuck him: he just can't decide. Sniper doesn't seem to care much for Scout's alarm beyond the risk of a smile. It's getting darker, and harder to see where exactly they stand. "Target practise?"

Scout shrugs. "It can't hurt," He says. "An' I figure I'll last a little longer if I'm not just caving people's skulls in, y'know?" Truth be told, Scout doesn't need the practise, eh actually needs the solace. He's had Spy between his legs for half the day and he's more than a little exhausted and ready to sleep. "I'm a little rusty though."

Sniper is courteous enough. He waits for the gun to be offered to him before he takes it, mumbling a gracious 'thank-you' as he draws. Now, Scout isn't much poetic at all, but watching Sniper shoot is like watching art. There's absoluteness to it, a gracious precision that never wavers. Even his mistakes have a good feeling about them, on the rare occasion that he makes one. Sniper exhales silently, his hand moving with conviction.

And he takes the shot.

One bullet pings through the bottom of the can, projecting it into the air while it somersaults wildly. Not two seconds of it being in the air is another shot fired, piercing the can again. It falls with two holes in to the dusty ground, and Scout is more than impressed. Sniper says nothing. He leans the gun down and turns back to Scout.

"The scope is about two millimetres to the left," Is all that's said. Scout grins, taking the gun with apprehension.

"Yeah, like I'm gonna be able to follow that." He says, cheerily. "I can' shoot anything further than ten metres, an'-"

Sniper blinks slowly, and scratches his neck. "S'why they gave you a shotgun," He explains. "You can't miss anything under ten metres with a shotgun," It could be a lie, or a hidden insult, but he would be the one to know. Whenever Sniper gives his opinion on something, Scout usually just accepts it as fact, and gets in with the world in it's altered state.

"I can hit further than ten metres, y'know." He insists, taking aim with the rifle. "Compared to the rest of those chuckleheads with shotguns, I'm actually pretty useful. Should have seen me yesterday, I was unstoppable." Before he can take the shot, Scout feels a strong, lean pair of arms fix around him, and guide his hands. Hot breath is in his ear and he can smell coffee, regret, and cologne fixed against the aroma of sharp, sweet sweat.

"Further up," Sniper informs him, in a very quiet voice not unlike gravel. He can see the luminous can through the scope, can read the damn ingredients, too. "Exhale slowly, and squeeze the trigger," It's the only thing that has made Scout nervous in a long time. He's afraid of failing and he needs a piss ad this breaks an implicit rule, somewhere. "What're you shaking for? Take the shot,"

"Right," Scout licks his lips, dryer than the dust. He levels his breathing and draws out a long breath, before giving the trigger an experimental squeeze. At first, nothing happens, so he squeezes again. The crack of the rifle jolts through the both of them, the sensation passed from Scout's shoulder to Sniper's torso. There is a metallic clang and Scout looks up, hopefully.

The bullet is buried in the fence. "Well," Sniper says, quietly. "You could have done worse. Try again,"

Scout thinks about making something up: that he has somewhere to be or somebody to do, but instead, he just stands there, foolishly, holding the rifle with such discontent. He just wants to be alone for a minute: he really is tired, more so than he has been for a very long time. He draws, for Sniper's sake, and takes aim.

"That's nice," he is instructed. "Exhale slowly-"

"I know." Scout says, petulantly. He has the can exactly in the crosshairs, his finger gracing the trigger just as he hears Sniper speak again.

"Is is- what is this? Us?" Scout freezes. He cannot bring himself to even squeeze the trigger, or think to move even another millimetre. Even his breathing feels tighter. It's rare that Sniper sounds so earnest, but Scout really doesn't know what to say in the slightest, so he just swallows. "Are you sleeping with Spy?"

"And Medic," He whimpers. That one seems to hit Sniper like a bullet in the back.

"Jesus Christ." He says, bitterly. "So this is just-"

"I know." Scout says, still staring at the can through the scope with utter terror in his eyes. "I know what you're gonna say, but if I didn't know what I was doing, I wouldn't do it. This is fun. We're both happy, right?" But he can feel Sniper's eyes burning into his back like a radar of hatred. He speaks up again. "It's the same with the others. I'm just not—y'know?"

Apparently, Sniper does not.

"If you really wanna take me out for dinner the next time we fuck, that's cool, and if you don't want to sleep with me anymore, that's cool too," Scout is still staring down the scope. He doesn't want to have to see Sniper right now. This is the part they ignore. Carnal, he realises suddenly, is the word for it. Nothing more. No commitment, no owing. "It's just sex. Is that-…okay?"

Slowly, Sniper manages a nod. His face is fixed in blank concentration, impenetrable to Scout of all people. "That's okay,"

Scout loosens off the shot, at long last, letting out an enormous, ragged breath as he pulls the trigger. He misses by a damn mile, watching the last offending can on the fence wink coyly at him, mocking him. Scout has the good nature enough to laugh, because he doesn't have the energy for pride right now.

He points the gun barrel towards the dirt. "Okay, so maybe I can't hit nothin' further than ten feet. I'm good enough with my shotgun."

Suddenly, Sniper is close once more, a hand on the boy's shoulder, his breath even more warm and tempting. "I know something else you're good at,"

Surely that should be someone.

-

With Spy, things are very different.

While Scout is changing in his own room, for once, he opens his window to let some air in. Since last night, he has had a terrible headache. Sleep has done nothing for it but make him feel somehow more fatigued. Sniper's bed is hard and narrow and sleeping in it has made the space between his shoulder sore.

He wanders back in from the en-suite, feeling and looking dreadful, gasping for a hot drink, and for more rest. The fighting will start up again soon, and he will have to use all of his energy then. That isn't to say he couldn't think of a much more creative way of spending his energy, over the course of just as many hours, until his body was completely drained, but those aren't the terms of his employment.

The room is smokier than before. Scout coughs, and swipes through the air with a palm. He gets the fright of his life when Spy appears from the nothingness of the smoky air, all smiles and readied wit, as if to do battle with Scout's lethargy: for once, he really isn't in the mood.

"You can get done for breakin' and enterin'. It's a felony, y'know." Scout says over his shoulder, throwing shirts onto his mattress. His head splits and the cigarette smoke is making him woozy. This isn't helping. Spy straightens and takes a drag on the cigarette that seems surgically attached to him.

"But I 'ave not broken anything. I 'ave entered is all, and this is not a crime." Spy gives him a look. "You enter things all the time," The man crosses the room and spins Scout by his arm until they're so close he can see every sunset in Spy's eyes. "It appears we 'aven't said good morning,"

Scout tears away. "No chance, pal. My head is splitting like a bitch," But Spy isn't letting up, and it's no longer endearing, not when Scout is in this mood. Now it's obnoxious and a hassle.

"You would like an aspirin?" He croons. Scout shakes him off.

"I'd like to be left alone, thanks," But he doesn't relent, and the smell of the cigarettes is overwhelming. Jesus, nobody can actually want him when he looks this bad, and he doesn't want anybody either. It doesn't make sense to him.

Spy's grip on his arm is hard, and Scout thinks about slugging him.

"Christ, you don't use the word 'no' in Europe?" Scout scrubs his face with his other hand and tugs away. "I said, get the hell off-"

There is an errant knock on the door. Saving Scout, and he promises he'll do whatever –and he does mean whatever, to his saviour as long as he survives the next hour, or even day without killing himself, or his teammates.

"Y'left your shotgun in the Rec room." Jesus is he glad to hear Sniper, the voice soft and honest. Most of the team don't get to hear him laugh, or talk with real passion, and Scout is almost embarrassed Spy should get to witness any care, "You okay?"

Scout is staring at Spy when he speaks. He feels very woozy. "Fine," He says, striving for a breezy tone. "I'll pick it up later," They both wait in the caught silence for his quiet footsteps to sink into silence before either of them speak. I mean, it's not secret, but there's some kind of betrayal in it, however deep that might be.

Scout isn't proud of himself. But pride has nothing to do with this.

Spy takes his hand, all theatrics, and kisses the back of it tenderly, blue eyes never leaving Scout's face. "Per'aps another time, then, cher?"

Maybe it's the heat or the humidity or the lack of breakfast, but Scout can't say anything. He shudders, twice, and then vomits all over Spy's hand.

Pride has nothing to do with it at all.

-

Pink convalescence and tea. That's how he comes to remember Medic's concern. He lays against him in Medic's bed and remains motionless. He's reading a sports almanac, as the television has lost reception in the Rec room. Medic is reading something in german. Maybe it isn't german, Scout doesn't know, but there are an awful lot of dots and lines where letters should have well been left alone. He's had the medigun on him for half an hour.

"I feel better already, doc," He insists. The transparency of the lie is abysmal. Medic tucks an arm around him and feels over his forehead with his other hand, the book laying to rest on the nightstand.

"You are a terrible liar," Medic is rarely this compassionate, though he always offers Scout his bed, and his arms. "And a dummkopf. You are running a fever,"

Ever catching Scout surprised, Medic kisses him again, more innocent and concerned. He looks very seriously at Scout. Most of the time, Medic makes him want to rip off his nose because he can be so cold and infuriating and blind, Scout swear he wants to tear if off-...except when he doesn't. Except when he wishes he had a better sense of smell to enjoy the scent of Medic's hair, he always hated the way shampoo smelled but not here.

Of course, the thing about loving Medic is that he is a Medic, and he can't help helping. Just as Scout thinks he could trick himself into staying, Medic is fixing something else. He takes Scout's temperature, sticking a glass rod under his tongue with a practised precision, taking his pulse.

"You are lucky tomorrow is a rest day," Is all he says. He lays back down and picks up his book again. The letters are large enough, but Medic is squinting away, even with his glasses on.

"You've got piss-poor eyesight, doc," He laughs.

"You have a smart mouth," Medic is quick to return the comment, with the smallest smile, unwilling to give anything away. Scout grins. He can play this game.

"Better than having a dumb mouth."

Medic waves a hand. "Quiet, saukerl, I'm trying to read," He isn't. He has made his way through the book on Scout's tortured moans alone, and the sight of his face, flushed with mercy and joy. Scout leans up so far he can hear Medic's heart. For that moment they are both alone with eachother, no talking or thought. Not even sex.

It's strange. Scout doesn't usually want anything more than to fuck, but it's different with Medic. Because sometimes they will fuck, against the wall or on the desk. But most of the time, Medic is tender, and it's not fucking at all but something deeper. They will face eachother, there might even be kissing, and afterwards Medic will offer him to stay the night, or by now, forever. Today, seeing Scout look so unwell, he insisted on sleep.

"Do you do this with the others, liebling?" Medic murmurs, eyes heavy with the desire to sleep. He leans over to switch off the medigun, seeing as it has done the bare minimum. The question strikes Scout as odd. He doesn't seem like the jealous type. He shouldn't be bothered by what goes on elsewhere. But they all are. All of them. He mewls, softly.

"Do what?" It's a tactless evasion and Medic is smarter than he is.

"This. Stay with them. Seek comfort from them," Medic doesn't look impatient, but this is clearly of some importance. He has never been one to speak without reason, or to waste words like Scout does.

"No," He says, quietly. "No, this is different,"

Further questions have been raised. He feels rough and wrong and Scout is supposed to fuck up and sleep around and stay up all night. He's built that way. This expectation that he will be good or different or loyal is supersticion: it's false hope and he despises it.

"Different how?"

Scout sighs. "I'm really tired," He says, in his most pathetic voice. "We can talk about it in the morning,"

Medic accepts this. They fall asleep curled into eachother, and the question hands above them all night, waiting for an answer.

Scout is gone by morning.


	2. II

Delirium, lust-addled, silent, at the centre of his very universe, Scout glances up through his lashes, his heartbeat the only song that matters; he is the only visible light in Sniper's whole universe. He is reducing the man to ashes as the life burns out of them both, glistening like gold. The very sky is burning and the sunset is being scratched into Scout' scalp.

Sniper's body freezes, and then convulses as his entire universe burns into a burnt-out star, collapsing on itself, and on Scout, who tries to keep his hips pinned against the wall with shaking hands. The brilliant radiance of the moment blinds every thought Scout could have, staggers him into bliss, he will never forget how much he loves to be the pinhead on which Sniper's entire existence balanced on, even just for a second.

The light doesn't last, and his staggered thoughts fathom themselves into cohesion as he chokes, reeling, spitting hard and wiping his lips quickly. The only sounds are breathing, rhythmic and cyclic as they both find themselves fading into this dull universe, where Scout could be anybody, where his lips aren't the meaning of life.

A shot rings out from somewhere upstairs, and an announcement fills every room with a common dread. "Mission begins in sixty seconds,"

Life does not pause. The universe they're in is too finite, every second gone is lost or wasted if Sniper isn't looking at him like that. Like he's the answer to all of the hardest questions. They smile to eachother, and that's enough. Hurried dressing and these devious glances show Scout he's far from done.

They stock up in the launch room. All eyes on Scout: but he knows what they're thinking and he doesn't care. He's a modern man: an alpha-male on beta-blockers, though his kind often get mistaken for whores. It's never that simple. So he takes his shotgun shells, and a spare clip or so for his handgun, all the while feeling them stare. Let them. If they hate him or love him, Scout is still the only thing they're thinking about.

The silence is tight. Scout would try to break the ice, usually, but today he figures he should stick to ice, because they all know what he's just been doing and he'd rather save Sniper the embarrassment. It isn't until Heavy adjusts his vicelike grip on 'sasha' and gives Scout this odd look that the ice is broken.

"You wear war paint, leetle man?"

And for a second, Scout's mind is completely blank; he's got nothing at all to say to that. Of course he doesn't wear war paint: he's far too fond of his face. But the others have started looking at him, and they're laughing and it's making him a little irritable. Looking for some kind of help in the sea of faces, he spots Spy, gesturing to the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it is," Scout says, nastily, wiping it away with a speed he's known for, and a chagrin he isn't.

"Mission begins in ten seconds,"

They're still laughing, but for the first time, Scout isn't bothered by that. What bothers him more is the look he's getting from Medic. The man's face is usually gentle and open to Scout: ready with suggestion and kindness. It has-...well, he looks closed to anything, almost hostile in his passivity. Scout would do something, but the mania of bloodlust is strong and he could use a victory.

"Y'think his war paint is impressive?" Sniper jokes, rocking on his heels like he does when he's slightly nervous. "You should hear his battle cry."

-

The showers are brief.

They get three minutes of cold water, and standard issue soap that doesn't lather for love nor money. The water is like ice, and usually Scout spend so long adjusting to the temperature that he doesn't even get to use the soap. Today, the cold is a welcome rest from the fever that's been consuming him for nearly a week.

His Ma always used to say 'the water will wash away everything if you let it'. And Scout's a sinner, too.

He thinks about the sins of the flesh, visible for all to see, every red steak or bruise on his hipbone, every crescent-moon from his tortured lover's hands, they tell the story Scout can't manage to vocalise. He doesn't want that washed away: he doesn't want to regret this.

What Scout does want to wash away is the vulnerable inflection in Sniper's voice when he asks what 'they' are. Or that look on Medic's face, so closed to anything, consumed by something ugly, and less recognisable than rage.

He's nearly out of water by the time two hands fix themselves around him like stone, and Scout struggles for a second, before relaxing into it, unafraid. There is another man's blood still crusty on his neck.

"You are well?" The voice is so easy to trust that Scout might just sunder himself by going limp and weak. He manages a slight nod, giving him away. "This is wonderful. I did not 'ave a chance to fetch you any aspirin, cher." The laugh is gentle. Scout chooses to believe it: to believe that Spy cares.

He sighs, and leans heavy on Spy's arm, but calls the shots. "You got about thirty seconds of water to convince me," They burn bright with fickle beauty, and Scout keeps very still when Spy's ministrations start on his neck –he loves that, and Spy does it best. He whimpers. "Why me?"

Spy pauses, briefly, just under his ear. The smile is felt against Scout's skin. "You look good on me, you know."

Scout knows.

-

Most people think there's no distinction between what Scout thinks and what he says out loud. But this is demonstratively untrue.

For instance, right now, he's thinking about how Medic told him that sex is actually proved to be more effective than analgesics for headaches and such, but he hasn't gone and said it out loud. And then he thinks about how he hasn't a paracetamol today, but he's doing a great job of not saying any of this.

He adjusts the receiver to his ear and rolls his eyes. "Yes, Ma. I'm making plenty of friends. We're all a happy damn-" Now he can't think anything because of the assault in his ear. "Sorry, Ma." She never did like it when he swore, or came close to it. Part of him misses Boston, and never being alone. It's hard to make friends here, and Scout knows he has exploited himself because he's bad at words more than once. "Yeah, I sure will."

He thinks about Sniper as he draws in the dirt with his foot. He draws a flower, and then kicks it into a mess.

"No, I'm pretty busy, actually." Scout sighs. "But I'll –no, Ma, I'll call you in a couple days," He thinks about going home, sometime, after all of this is finished. Now it seems so small, with the streets that swallow themselves up, and the paper people, burning the furniture to stay warm. "yeah, okay, I'll –yes, okay, Ma. I love you too. I'll –oh, jeez." He sighs again. "Yes, I'll make sure to do that. Okay –yes, bye, Ma. Bye."

What an ordeal.

He walks back out the where he left Sniper, shooting at empty cans, building nothing, laying bricks. Sniper hears everything, and looks up from the rifle, and smiles, his guard falling slightly when he sees Scout slumping towards him.

"It's cold," Is all he says, sniffing. Usually,Scout will rant for a little about his home, his mother, or one of a range of siblings, some of which he's sure Sniper thinks are made up. Today, he just complains,standing around like a petulant child in a clothes shop.

Sniper leads him back to the vehicle, the rifle slung over his shoulder. "It's not, but we should get back anyway," His free arm loops around Scout's shoulders, warming him slightly, but more than that. It's a gesture of trust, because Sniper doesn't really like people, or contact all that much, of the hand or eye. To give it to Scout is almost sweet. "Should be dinner when we get back. Bologna night,"

Scout's face changes. He shakes his head. "I'll pass on that. The pasta s'never cooked right. Not like-"

Sniper laughs. "Not like Ma used to make, we know." His laugh is short and sharp and sweet, appearing so rarely that it always catches Scout off-guard, even when he finds himself hilarious. The sun is just setting and if he felt a little better, it might be a moment to say something smart and meaningful, as if to reaffirm to the both of them that Scout isn't completely unfeeling.

But ultimately, he has nothing to prove to anybody.

"You should have something." Sniper continues, with what is dangerously close to care flickering away at the back of his words. "I could snap you like a dry twig."

Scout isn't even offended: he likes the way he looks, and he likes his choices. But he doesn't like being told what to do. "What do you care?"

Sniper's arm stiffens. "i never said I cared-"

Scout lets out a sharp breath. "So you don't care,"

"I guess not."

"Good." Scout says. He nods to himself, trying to decide if he likes that choice in particular. If he was going to start getting all soft and emotional, he'd pick somebody a little plainer, and easier to read. Somebody he didn't mind losing as much. Then again, that couldn't be Medic, and it's very different with Spy.

Quieter, Sniper nods, just as weakly. "Fine,"

Scout doesn't like that word.

-

Friday night is the best night of the week, for Scout.

The work finishes earlier, and resumes later on a Saturday, allowing a sleep-in. They have hot showers, for once, and all chip in for a takeout. Best of all: going in to town, and seeing the delightful girls, the even more delightful boys, the drinks, the sins, and the next mornings.

Tonight, Scout has something different in mind. He waves those who are going off with a smile, usually amongst their number. See, it's strange: he doesn't necessarily like any of them especially, but going to town and drinking brings something out of these 'respectable men', talking about loose girls from Rome, stealing beer, getting fucked.

Maybe when they look at Scout, they're not judging him. Maybe they're remembering.

Some of the group opt out of the weekly trips, having something better to do, or somebody to do (unlikely, seeing as Scout usually goes). Medic always stays. For all the things Scout could say for him: he's actually pretty humourless. Heavy stays, even though he's usually always game for a lark. Sniper is aloof by nature. Sometimes he goes, and other times not, but if he does, it's alone.

He doesn't feel particularly well. He hasn't for a while and had gone to Medic a few times seeking actual advice, and getting a prescription orgasm and a 'the medigun cannot heal bacterial or viral maladies'. Fortunately, only one was a disappointment.

So, feeling a little homesick, and sick in general, he goes to the infirmary armed and determined to extract some joy out of the night. He doesn't get an actual rest until sunday, the only day of entire rest, and it sure feels like he won't make it.

Three knocks on the Infirmary door. And then an intrusion, because sure, it's polite to knock, but Scout doesn't make friends by playing the Mother Theresa card often.

He hears the violin like a lightning rod on a summer's day. It comes, bright and proud through the open office door, and if Scout can read people well enough, Medic will be all caught up in it; too much so to answer his own door. Ever-vigilante, Archimedes coos at the intruder, flying a neat circle around Scout. He bats away with his hand.

The bird squawks, and the violin ceases with a sharp noise.

"Komme." That voice doesn't too soft or pleased. Well, however cold he is, Scout knows how to warm him up.

"You busy?" he leans in the door. Tries to play it less needy, tries to play it like isn't seeking proximity, because whatever they are: they certainly aren't attached. Medic actually seems glad to see him. His whole gait changes: he stands straighter, his expression opens a little more, and his palms become visible. Scout remembers one of his brothers saying that was a sign of trust, and he wasn't getting anything if he lied about that.

"I didn't expect to see you staying," Is all he says. Maybe that's all he needs to say. Scout better think of something crude or stupid to say real quick because this might just be a romantic moment and Medic looks like he's seeking proximity and that isn't what this is.

"I didn't fancy drinkin' on this stomach," Scout shrugs. He wants to stop being looked at like that, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets and raises his shoulders hard. "How come you stay here every week? S'not much fun starin' at the same four walls."

Thankfully, Medic turns away with his eyes and gestures to his office, which contains many more of his personal effects. Scout takes care to notice them, because the man never says a word for or against his own name. His violin appears to be the only superfluous thing in the office, if it even can be considered so. Reams of paper. Lots more german that give Scout as headache just to see, and starkly-bound medical journals. No family pictures. Nothing from home. The doves are his only luxury.

Out of nowhere, a question stirs the stillness of the air. "Do they still have the cinema in the town?"

Scout thinks. "Far as I know. There ain't nothin' good to watch, though," An idea strikes him suddenly, and this faint blush hits him like fever. Scout doesn't really like film, but he does like attention and he knows one way of getting Medic's attention using a film. "You wanna watch something?"

Medic waves hand. "I do not have anything in mind,"

And Scout grins. "That's okay," He says. "I got an idea,"

You can imagine, with seven brothers, that Scout has always been very aware of the world. They always say how modern he is, and hos informed he is, for a 'kid'. It's funny: Scout never claims to be smart, but there are things he knows even more about then, say, Medic.

This is one of those rare occasions.

"You never had a dirty magazine?" Scout is fussing with the nearly-broken TV. Medic is sat upright on the couch that belches it's stuffing at the armrests. He looks far too well-bred for the occasion. Of course, Scout knows better, so he just says a silent thank-you to his eldest brother and thumbs open the resealed envelope. "A book, a naughty photograph?" Disbelief in his eyes, Scout stands, arms akimbo. 2Nothin'?"

"Most of my friends had-" Medic swallows. Boy does he have a pretty mouth. Scout has to remember to focus on the words, though, so that when he's asked something, he won't just go on about Medic's mouth. "They were called 'french postcards'. But-" He speaks like he's ashamed, and maybe that was drummed into him. Scout can think of a few neat ways to drum it out of him. "They were only of girls,"

Scout shakes his head. "Well, it's the best I can do, for now," The suggestion is appreciated. He gets the lights and sits, right up close to Medic, so damn close he can smell the man's humanity and has to look in the other direction.

And after a while, the film starts up.

It opens with a blonde sprawled on the hood of a car, with the guy right between her legs. No time for dialogue. Now, Scout has seen this plenty of times before, and it's shitty and ridiculous, but he knows that. With Medic, it's a whole other story.

Scout's favourite thing about cinema is turning around to see peoples faces in the dark. Medic's is that of a man bewildered: and a man of science, too. He watches very carefully, though, never once moving his hands from their clasp, his lips forming silent words as if he's making notes.

Demo said something about a wife. It hits Scout like a tonne of bricks to think how little he even knows about Medic: if the man even likes women, or if he was married. It's clear he's never seen anything like this before.

The girl in the film is saying 'give it to me' in a hideous and bright drawl, he curls bounding ridiculously, and as the positions start to change. And Scout has never really thought much of that. It's not until Medic speaks up, of course.

"She hates it," He says, very quietly. "Look at her face,"

Scout has never noticed that before. He has never looked at her before. Never. Scout thinks about the women in his life, about the loose girls and the tight ones and his mother, and he thinks, Jesus, that girl onscreen is somebody's daughter, and the guy fucking her can't even see her face.

"There is no kissing," Medic says, again. He sounds very wooden.

Scout shrugs. "I don't think he's got very good access, y'know." He looks at Medic. That face he has seen so many times. Has he been looking then, and not just staring?

"And this is supposed to be fun?" Medic asks. As far as Scout can tell, that's genuine curiousity. He stands up and flicks off the TV, scratching the nape of his neck for comfort.

The critique of what they're watching makes Scout more than a little bit uncomfortable. One part because he always accepted it as normal, and the other because it reminds him most of Spy, and what they are, and how they work.

"Well, yeah," He says, simply. "I just thought it'd be funny," It's lame, but it's the only thing he has. Scout swallows and sits back next to Medic. They look at where the film was. "It's not hurting anybody."

Medic makes a noise of amusement. "What about her, spatz?" He then looks at Scout, finally, and the space between them comes to represent the difference in age, so physically, it's shocking. Medic comes from a different era: at Scout's age, the only pleasure there was to be had were cards games and cigarettes. He was fighting wars for other countries and his only protection from the bullets of other men was his medical flag.

In that moment, Scout is staring at Medic, and he can see everything, for just this once, and they're in this strange moment of timelessness. Scout isn't talking, and Medic isn't working out something, and it strikes Medic that they could kiss, right now, and it wouldn't be about proximity or comfort or just sex. If they kissed right now, it would mean something, and Scout is only a few inches away, his face a pale and soft vanilla by a badly-caught moon through the drapes.

Scout murmurs something incredibly quietly.

"What?" Medic leans towards him, seeking something. His only reward is Scout stretching out in the hair, his feet just making it to the other armrest as he adjusts himself on Medic's lap. The moment is gone. "What did you say?"

Scout waves his hand, as if to swipe away anything Medic has said. "Quiet, already," He says, grumbling. The evenings wear on for the both of them.

It's never been like this before. Medic is stroking his hair and his hands are soft and careful and Scout is so tired. His shirt is caught under his elbow and the markings of anther man warn Medic of the ground he's treading on.

Scout is not anybody's concept. He is a tattered boy that bleeds dignity like an oak tree. A broken body that echoes like sin in a room full of god, they can all hear the loneliness in the concert of his walk. There must be treble clefs buried in his kneecaps. Medic makes a move to rise, to be alone. His lungs feel tight but he can't place why, scientifically.

A hand grabs him in the half-darkness. "For Christ's sake, stay until I'm sleepin'."

Medic sits. He stays.

-

Do not fear death. Fear the BLU Medic.

Scout can hear his breathing, quick with delight, with absolute joy, and he can smell the blood. The bite of the saw continues, all the while, the man's mouth hangs open in some maniacal smile, as if he is completely enraptured and overjoyed by the pain. His teeth are yellow with plasma. His white face is flecked with crimson.

Scout can't breathe. He can't get the oxygen into his lungs, they're on fire, and he breaths out ashes as he sobs, body shaking, pressed against surly concrete. When the pain intensifies it tears every thought and memory from him, and Scout howls. He batters wildly, kicking his legs, thrashing about like a fish on a line. There is nothing left in his body but he feels as if he's going to explode, gasping out these pathetic noises between his cries: Scout is wailing.

Sprays of fresh red decorate the concrete, and the BLU Medic, still smiling manically, and Scout can taste his own blood. He stare is pushed to the hand being sliced away at. The teeth of the saw glint hungrily, dulled by the mess of blood as it digs deeper, hungry for worthier prey, back and forth, making neat work of his bones. Scout's vision is blurry with a thousand things. He screams out again. He struggles.

The saw is warming up with every stroke, and the blood runs like syrup. A trail runs past Scout's nose, he can smell it, the lividity blinding him.

With a damp glove, BLU Medic wipes the silver trails from Scout's face with a false generosity. "The pain won't last, liebe." He speaks, quietly. "You'll still have the arm,"

The cheek pressed into the concrete is now completely covered in blood. Against his own desire, Scout vomits, the bile painting the floor a neat shade of yellow. He chokes. "Re-" The saw picks up the pace again. "Respawn,"

"Is that what they've told you?" The laughter is mirthless and cold, and it's drowned but by the music of the vorpal blade tearing through the flesh of his arm, now hitting the bone. Scout screams again, shutting his eyes, trying to take himself somewhere –anywhere but here.

"Medic!" He screams out again. The flickering gunnery drowns out his pleas, and the rest of the world remain deaf to him. The BLU Medic leaves the saw half-buried in his arm. He remains straddled on Scout's back, sitting on Scout's left arm. He lifts Scout's face by the hair and tugs.

"Quiet, junge." Scout swallows what little bile he has left and lets a sob break him. Because he can't pretend any-more, he's scared and helpless and he's been left here to die, to be operated on while the others battle more recognisable horrors. His clean cheek is smeared with his own life and BLU Medic strokes it softly. "That's it. Guter junge."

Scout thrashes again. He can't just give up. He can't just watch this happen, but he isn't strong enough, and he can't seem to move his arm and BLU Medic is laughing at him.

"Medic," He whimpers. "Medi-"

The sawing starts up again. At his ear, BLU Medic sounds very impatient. "If you cannot behave yourself, I won't hesitate to cut out your tongu-"

Scout rears back violently, feeling his skull crack against something, the brow or the nose, but whatever it is, BLU Medic topples backwards with a cry and Scout tries to pick himself off of the bloody floor, scampering and falling. Behind him, He can hear the clatter of the BLU Medic.

He stumbles against the side of the tunnel wall, unable to run in the water, and runs as fast as he can, turning the water rosy, smearing the white walls with red as he heaves himself away. BLU Medic is in hot pursuit, Scout can hear his shouts, and the footsteps in the water.

Two pains in his back slow him. He tears out the syringes, trying to continue on, but he's very weak, and there isn't enough blood left in him to carry on or much longer. Woozy, he calls out again. "Medic!"  
BLU Scout grabs him.

It's over. He's thrown against the curved tunnel wall and the enemy Scout is staring at him with such intensity, but not doing anything. Scout tries to fight him, weak and useless, but gives up. Not a second later, the BLU Medic is with them once more, wiping the blood from his face.

"Thank-you, Herr Scout-"

Very calmly, the BLU Scout pulls his pistol out and shoot the BLU Medic between the eyes. The man falls into the water without so much as a grunt. Scout screams.

He doesn't want to lose his hand. He doesn't want to play this game anymore. "Please-" But when he looks up, the enemy Scout has changed. Spy stands, knee-deep in the cold water. He tucks away his gun, and as soon as he is finished, Scout curves like a bow and falls against him.

"He tried to –tried to-"

Spy says nothing. That's more helpful than anything his words could muster. Instead, he lets Scout be, and puts a single arm around the boy's shoulders. Scout is delirious. He covers his face and tries to even out his breathing. "Oh, God,"

Perhaps from the heat, or the shock, or the blood loss, Scout faints.

-

When Scout comes to, he recognises the brilliant infirmary lights. He lifts his head too fast and becomes dizzy again. Blinking, he lifts a hand to his head.

At least he still has it.

But for Medic's voice, drifting in from his office, Scout is alone. He sits up, but makes no move to walk around the office, for fear of taking another embarrassing fall. There are no scars on his arms. No blood on his shirt, or face. He realises, suddenly, that somebody has cleaned him up, and somebody has changed him.

It's no big surprise. Outside of this context, Scout could be persuaded into embarrassment. Right now, he's too tired. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear Medic. He must be on the telephone, because he's speaking in German, or some european language.

Scout isn't stupid. He may not understand what's being said, but the way it's being said is clear as day. Medic is happy. No –not just happy, he's breathless with delight.

"Mir raucht der kopf..." He's actually laughing. Scout hasn't the faintest who it is on the other line: Medic seems a little old to be talking to a parent he's never mentioned before. He leans on his hands and continues to listen. "Ich nicht blatt vor den mund, ich habe jeden prüfung durchgeführt." A pause. "Ich bin sicher,"

What the hell is this? If Scout was feeling even a little better, he'd be up on his feet, breaking something, doing something to get Medic's attention. He doesn't like being ignored. He doesn't like being upstaged. But the conversation Medic is in completely engulfs him.

"Ich konnte es nicht sagen. er ist jung und sehr unruhig." More laughter. Scout grows impatient, hopping off the table, and steadying himself as his vision sharpens. The room could be anybody's. Everything is so impersonal. He wanders past the mirror, and then wanders back in front of it.

The face he's staring at is white. He doesn't remember being able to see the structure of his bones so clearly. His arms look longer, and thinner. He looks more tired. Scout should stand up straighter, he should eat better, he should sleep more. People would respect him more if he looked better.

"Fein, über mich lachen." Scout wants to question the contended sigh, because Medic never sounds like that. Never. But he has neither the tools nor the means, so he hooks his thumbs in his belt-loops and rocks a little, nervously.

"Doc?" Now, that surprises him.

"A minute," Is all he asks for. And then, quieter, more nervous. "Diese ganze sache ist lächerlich. Er wird nie, mir zu glauben. Auch wenn er tut..." He starts to sound a little more like himself when he lets out a conflicted sigh. "Es gibt keine Möglichkeit zu sagen, wenn das kind gehört mir."

Scout clicks his tongue. "I ain't got all day, y'know."

Medic makes a noise of annoyance. "Amerikaner." He grumbles. "Natürlich. Ich werde dich später anrufen."

He puts the telephone down, and emerges from his office, looking more grieved than usual. Scout doesn't know what he expected; Medic had sounded so happy only a minute ago, and now he's having trouble looking Scout in the face. It strikes him that maybe there's something really wrong. Maybe he's got something nasty or terminal wrong with him.

Oh, Jesus. What if he's about to be told he's going to die?

In the smallest voice Scout has ever heard himself using, he speaks. "What's wrong, Doc?" He swallows. He thinks of his mother. Crucified Christ, he wants to cry. "Bad news?"

Medic is pulling this face Scout has seen before. It's a lie, his queer little smile. His hands are wringing like tormented snakes, and all the while he's smiling through a paralysed fear. Scout has seen it first-hand, and he knows that things are at their very worst when even Medic says 'it's going to be okay'.

"You may want to sit down," Is all he says. The words hang from his mouth like a shrill, fluorescent floodlight that bathes Scout in worry and attention that he no longer wants.

"I'm good where I am," Scout swallows. His stuffs his hands on his pockets. His act of defiance doesn't seem to stir anything in Medic; none of that usual irritability. Oh, God, he wishes Medic would just say something normal, he wishes Medic would just tell him. The suspense will kill him faster than any disease at this rate.

"As you like it," Medic says, very quietly. "I just have a few questions."

Scout sits.

"Could you describe your sickness to me?" He asks. Still, his voice is so quiet it stirs nothing but Scout's worries. He wishes he could smile and pretend everything's okay, but he can't. "In your own words. List your symptoms."

Scout takes in a breath. "I get dizzy a lot. I can't sit up too fast or-" he licks his lips, "-or nothin' like that." he looks at his lap. "My back feels stiff sometimes, but I sleep in awkward places, y'know." It's unbearable The only sound is Archimedes, and Scout hates that damn bird. Wants to rip it's feathers out and roast it. "Doc, what's ha-"

"Have you lost any weight?"

The questions seem irrelevant, and a little abrasive. Medic seems to be pulling them out of the air, and if he didn't look so sombre Scout would accuse him of mockery.

"Yeah," He says, woodenly. "Yeah, I have, but that's only cause I can't eat nothin'." He looks up at Medic. "Food's been makin' me real sick lately,"

Medic is writing it all down. After a while, he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands. He puts them back on and rakes a hand through his hair. He looks older, somehow. Frantic. He looks at Scout with sad eyes.

"How often do you have sex?"

Scout rears back. He can hear the jealousy nestled in that question and he rises on instinct. "Doc-"

"This has nothing to do with our relationship." Medic says the words like they are on the paper in front of them. He takes no ownership of the sentiment, but Scout can see he's trying to remain professional. For both of them, it's very difficult. "Right now, I am your attending physician." He grinds out. "Please."

Thing is, Scout has to think about it.

"Daily." He says, quietly. Medic hides his reaction masterfully, and Scout really can't give a word either way on how that makes the man feel. He stands up, feeling the pressure of the situation get to him.

"What's wrong with me, Doc?" For the first time, his voice starts to shake. Scout doesn't care. He swallows. "What's gonna happen?"

Medic may not be the most compassionate of people, but right now, he's pretty comforting. He abandons the role of 'physician' with gusto, rising, and bringing Scout close to him. The smell of humanity, and of something stronger and safer quiets his most dire fears.

"You're going to be okay," He says. "That's what's going to happen." Scout lets out a ragged breath. "You're healthy. You're aliv-"

Scout fights him off a little. "You wouldn't have been askin' so many questions if I was fine." the boy flares up, breathless with indignation. "Would you just tell me?!"

Medic holds up his hands like he's trying to tame a wild animal. Shows his palms. "Scout, please. You must calm--"

"No!" He hisses. "I ain't gonna calm down. You got some explainin' to do right this second." He will shout as he like and be angry as he sees fit. Maybe that's not very reasonable, but Scout isn't known for being reasonable. This would be very different if he was talking to Sniper. Sniper wouldn't make him feel like a child.

"I believe you to be-" Medic slumps back in his chair. He massages his temples. "I believe you to be pregnant,"

Scout sits once more. He doesn't know much of anything medical, but he's certain it's impossible.

"The chorionic gonadotropin hormone was present in your blood," Medic still isn't looking at him. His gaze is burning through the papers on his desk. "Your symptoms are consistent. I cannot argue with the science,"

Scout tries to breathe. His lungs feel like a train wreck. "There isn't another explanation?"

Medic finally looks up at him. "Not that I have found," And Medic is brilliant, and smart, and Scout trusts him. That's the worst part; trusting him has put them here.

"You sure about this?"

A nod. "I'm afraid so,"

Not even three days ago, Medic was wailing. He was nipping and kissing all along Scout's jaw and would have given him anything, anything –the moon on a string, stars on his fingernails, anything at all. He came hard and fast and gave Scout stars sewn into his eyelids. Now, he can't muster a sentence longer than five words.

"I don't want a kid," Scout says, simply. "I mean, maybe someday, but not here and now. I couldn't-" He shrugs, uncomfortable, and look at Medic. "Do you-"

"This is not my decision to make." The realisation physically grips Scout. This thing: it isn't just his. He gulps. "I can perform a surgery, if you are certain," He sounds sad. Hell, he can sound any way he wants, this is Scout's decision and even if he makes the wrong choice, he has to live with it.

There's a time and a place for being considerate. There's time time and a place to die, too, but this isn't it.

"I'm certain," Scout hears himself say. He has no conviction in his voice.

Medic nods. "If you give me a week, I will have everything ready for you."

"A week?" Scout's mouth falls open. "No, Doc, I can't wait a week."

Medic blinks, still looking so melancholic. He scribbles something down on one of the papers in front of him and shrugs. "I'm afraid you will have to,"

A week it is, then.

"Don't tell nobody," Scout says. He rises, and lingers by the door. "Please."

If Scout asked for his eyes right now, Medic would crawl to fetch a scalpel. Medic wants to tell him that. He wants to say that he cares, and that the boy has so terribly enraptured him. But instead, all he can say is. "Of course,"

(The german in this passage is as follows:  
"Mir raucht der kopf..." = My head is spinning.  
"Ich nicht blatt vor den mund, ich habe jeden prüfung durchgeführt." = I don't mince words. I've done every test.  
"Ich bin sicher," = I am certain  
"Ich konnte es nicht sagen. er ist jung und sehr unruhig." = I could not say. He is young and very restless.  
"Fein, über mich lachen." = Fine, laugh at me.  
"Diese ganze sache ist lächerlich. Er wird nie, mir zu glauben. Auch wenn er tut..." = This whole thing is ridiculous. He will never believe me. Even if he does ...  
"Es gibt keine Möglichkeit zu sagen, wenn das kind gehört mir." = There's no way to tell if the child is mine.  
"Natürlich. Ich werde dich später anrufen." = I'll call you later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are many titties in the world, but there will only ever be one tit.   
> this has so many feminist themes running through it despite a lack of female characters. come at me.


	3. III

It's curious, Scout thinks, how Sunrise and Sunset look exactly the same. It's the sun both dying and rising, and yet, if the context were removed, he wouldn't be able to tell the difference. At one, his shadow falls behind him, following, and at the other, it rises to greet him.

Today, it seems to be swallowed up by the sand.

Scout remains still on the dirt of the desert floor. With one hand, he holds the receiver to his ear, hearing the dialtone like his own pulse. He draws vague shapes with the other. As he waits, his finger wanders aimlessly in the dust. There are no answers there. There are no answers anywhere.

He hasn't spoken to Medic since –hell, he doesn't even know what to call the encounter. Half of him is numb from disbelief. The other is cold and reeling in the shadow of how much sense it all makes. There is a muted click on the end of the other line, and he hears her voice as clear as day.

"Hey, Ma," He says, tiredly. She would usually shout at him for not calling, but the utter resignation in his voice seems to have warned her of something. He loves that, and appreciates it. Because, even though Scout tries to remain in control, and composed, if she asked right now what was wrong, he would probably break down into tears.

"I meant to call," He promises, voice still a shade of it's usual bounce. "My work's never done, y'know. I'd tell you the details, but-" He thinks about the censor. He thinks about his own fate. "But I wouldn't wanna bore you,"

She's talking now. Scout should listen. He should, but he can't seem to focus. Where is his mind, or even his heart? Jesus, his body has been just about everywhere. He thinks about home. About the prettiest girl in his year at school, who stayed at home during senior year because apparently her baby needed her more than she needed her high school diploma.

Scout had looked on and thought 'how careless'. He'd thought 'I'm never going to end up sticking to one place'. And it's not even ironic. It's just sad.

He catches the end of her question as he tunes back in. something about his second-oldest brother getting employee of the month. Everything seems so trivial now. This whole thing makes him feel jaded, and he's fucking young, so Christ's sake. He should want something more.

"That's great, Ma." He says, half-heartedly. "Tell him I said so," He sighs. He flicks the dirt off his fingernail and rubs at his eyes. He thinks about the mention of his father, with such bitterness. He thinks about his mother, alone, in a house full of children, and suddenly, it strikes him how alone she must have been.

On the other end of the line, she asks him what's wrong. The lie occurs to Scout as he's telling it.

"It's nothing," He swallows. "It's just-" He's not sure how to phrase it. "One of my friends-"

The comments on her half aren't helping. He wants to tell her everything. He wants to grab Medic's diagnosis and ram it down the receiver, but that would only do more damage than good, so he sucks it up.

"Yes, she's a lady-friend." A pause. "No, she ain't mine –tell you what, when I get myself a girl I'll bring her home to meet ya right away, okay?"

The irony of his words isn't not lost in the half-lilac evening.

"Anyway-" he says, with great effort. "This ain't nothin' to do with me, 'kay? She likes to sleep around a little, y'know, and she's in a little trouble,"

Scout lets out an uproarious laugh. He grins. "No, Ma, she didn't catch nothing' like that." Scout says it before he even realises what he's saying. "She's pregnant."

It's the first time he's used the word. It's the first time he's said it aloud, and it's not just the abstract concept, all of a sudden, it's a state of being and it's really real. Scout's movements cease until he's barely breathing. There's that image of high-school, of a pretty girl pushing her squeaky, second-hand pram up the hill outside of his house back home, and it scares Scout more than death and pain and suffering.

He needs to lie some more. But that's okay: after so long of not telling the truth, he's somewhat of an expert. "She keeps asking me what she should do, an' –...and I dunno, Ma. What do you think?"

Scout doesn't know what to expect. He leans against the post that holds the phone-box up, and stares at his legs out in front him. They're his best weapon, and Scout can run, goddamn, he is the best. The only trouble now, is his purpose. What is he running to, or worse; what is he running from?

His waits for her voice like it holds all of his hopes. It does. It holds all the answers and Medic can go hand because he doesn't want to make this decision alone: it isn't fair. Scout has it nice here: he has been given so much, but to have it taken away seems so unfair.

Ma asks why she likes to sleep around.

Scout has never thought about that. And it's easier this way: to talk about his deepest fears without having ownership of them, or without having them called worthless and embarrassing. He takes in a breath, and purposefully doesn't think of Spy's nail-marks all over his pretty spine.

"I think she likes the attention." He says. "It's lonely out here, and I guess that's an easy way to make friends," Only, he doesn't guess, Scout knows. But, obviously, he doesn't say that.

Ma says she won't be lonely for much longer.

Scout swallows. "Like, is that bad?" his throat is a pin-hole, and he can't bring his eyes to move from his feet, haunted by the sight of anything else. He doesn't know what he expects, but what really winds him is the smile in her voice.

Ma says that it's like never being alone again. Like having someone to stick thought the world with you, who you can help and change: somebody you get to love forever, and somebody who will love you, too.

Scout's mouth falls open. He tries to make sense of what she's just said, and even though he understands it, he's still confused. It's not something he ever considered. Truth be told, he doesn't really know why he called. His mind was made up. Scout looks at his stomach. It looks as it has always done.

"I never thought about it like that, Ma." He says, breathlessly. "Never,"

-  
Then again, Scout can get talked into pretty much anything. And I do mean anything, so long as the right words are used.

Spy knows a lot of words.

Scout has always prided himself on having the dignity to be at least private about his liaisons, enjoying them in darkness or in locked bedrooms, and anywhere guaranteed not to attract an audience or even another lover's eyes. Scout is at least considerate, and compassionate. Those are just the C's.

He would never do this in the Rec room. Not usually, anyway.

But he's not immune to persuasion, and especially not when Spy is talking to him like that in these husky, hushed whispers. He's at Scout's neck and with his lips, promising him everything and anything, all of these visible multitudes as he strokes Scout elegantly, pushing him further and further into bliss. His vision is already translucent with starry, white-hot pleasure because it's never like this, but tonight nothing matters, none of them but Spy, and the curl of his fingers and he lets Scout fall further and further into incomprehension. He's babbling and bucking and whining gloriously right into Spy's ear.

"Oh, Jesus-" He hisses, his face flushed, pyroclastic beads of sweat burning down his face. This is what it's like being one foot over the edge of the universe, and he bucks again, curling into Spy, sagging in resignation. He shakes his head desperately, and wheezes. "I'm gonna-"

Whatever Spy is about to say, already drowned out by the curl of his fingers is silenced by an intrusion.

"Herr Scout?"

They're hidden from sight, slid behind the sofa, and the surprise is so great that it throws Scout far over the edge and into a chasm of complete pleasure. Spy gives him two fingers to bite down hard on, and it takes everything, all of Scout's will, not to wail in the wake of such tremendous pleasure. His eyes screw shut and his toes curl, numbing as the orgasm tears through him, and he comes, trembling.

He tries to manage his breathing, so as not to give them away. Medic's shadow from the doorway is drooping over the both of them, hidden for now, but it's starting to move, slowly.

Spy cleans efficiently with his handkerchief but keeps Scout's body pressed down. And Scout is still glowing, like ashes, everything soft and hazy, the focus of the world softening as he sighs. "Is he still-"

There's a hand covering his mouth in a moment. "Quiet," He says, not even a whisper. "What is he going to think if he finds us here?"

Scout blinks lazily and makes no attempt to hide his smile, even as Spy tries to redress him. "He's gonna wish-" The shadow at the door moves. "-wish he could join in,"

Spy grabs him by the collar, and might say something, but the footsteps are drawing closer. He turns to his watch and presses some buttons on it. As he fades before Scout's eyes, the boy can hear the smile. There are two cigarettes on the table. "You are wonderful," Spy says. It has to be with a smile.

Medic wanders in front of the sofa, is eyes scanning the room. When he turns round he gets the fright of his life. The older man droops a little and places a hand on his heart.

"I did not know you were so determined to kill me," He says, quietly. Scout smiles lazily, and tries to lift himself onto the sofa, but he feels completely boneless. He remains, motionless, on the floor.

"You want somethin', Doc?" His senses are returning to him slowly, and Scout is finding it hard to look Medic in the eyes. He stares at the space between them and tries not to think too hard.

Medic comes bearing the gift of paperwork. It follows him around constantly, like his other lover, one that Scout has to fight with, constantly, for attention. The last night he won, their bed was cast adrift all night. But he can't think about that now. Medic leans down and hands him something.

"I need signed consent to perform invasive surgery," He waves a hand like it's all in day's work, like this doesn't matter, and Scout wishes he could pretend that much. The words drain every ounce of pleasure he had been filled with until he feels skeletal and starved. "It's nothing,"

Against all his childhood scoldings, Scout snatches with a great impatience. He doesn't bother to read any of it, maybe because it would take time, but more because he doesn't really want to know. His mother's words hang in the air, and as much as he despises her sentiment, what she has said it's true.

With the pen he's been handed, Scout scribbles in a hurry. On trembling legs, he manages to stand. "There's your signed consent," He grumbles. Scooping up the cigarettes, he goes to leave.

It's unbearable to be looked at like that. What is Scout supposed to say? He's young: he's supposed to fuck up and sleep around and get drunk and fall down. Medic's giving him this damn sad look, and he hates it, because he never made any promises, not to any of them. He doesn't owe them anything.

Medic catches his arm softly. "Give this some thought, spatz. It should not be a breezy decision."

Outside, the sodium clouds move slowly and openly away from Teufort and into the twilight. It's later than Scout thought. He can't keep track of time. This week is crawling by on broken legs and none of this is helping. It's all too real, and he despises every word falling from Medic's mouth.

He curses every mercy he's been granted when he shakes the man off. "Good thing it ain't your decision to make,"

-

Two days later, Scout wakes caught in the sunrise. He can't tell, in the first seconds, if it's the morning or afternoon: the desert will mess with your head like that. At first, he's lost and all he can see are memories: flour-dusted aprons, cracked playgrounds, barfights, broken bottles and having something to cry about. It fades and then he can see nothing but skin, and he can smell coffee and honesty.

He recognises the voice soothing him. "Sshh." Sniper holds him fast and close and doesn't let go. His arms are shaking with this kind of care Scout is unfamiliar with. And even though Scout is awake, he pretends, for a few more minutes that he's still asleep. It feels so nice. He can pretend. It's enough.

After a while, he pulls away from Sniper's neck and looks up, confused. He feels tired. Is throat is sore when he swallows, and goes to speak.

"What's wrong?" He whimpers. Scout always intends to sound harsher and sharper: he always intends to be somebody else.

Sniper's looking at him like he can't believe the question. And incredulousness doesn't suit him.

"I woke up and you were screaming," Is all he says. That has Scout sitting up in a second, his face fixed in confusion: it's very rare he dreams, despite the fact he sleeps enough. And he usually never dreams when he's sleeping with somebody else. It's one of the appeals of another man's bed: it means rest.

Sniper looks scared –no, not scared, because that implies fear. He looks concerned, and that means he cares. He runs a hand over Scout's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Scout nods. He doesn't trust himself enough to speak. Sometimes, he doesn't remember the dream, and other times he can gleam details. He knows what they're about, anyway, and he doesn't want to remember.

In a daze, Scout sits up. He fumbles for a red shirt on the floor of the vehicle and shrugs it on. It's not his, but the smell of manhood and care comforts him. The warm sun hands on his shoulders through the blinds as he leans against a counter in the kitchenette. He has a glass of water. A nip of vodka. He sits down without Sniper saying a word.

"What time is it?" Scout rubs his eyes. He pulls his legs into him as he sits more comfortably. In a few hours, the nausea will set in, and he won't be able to stand the heat or the sharp, sweet smell of sweat. It would be a blessing not to have to endure it any longer.

Sniper leans back to read his clock. "It's half-four in the morning," There's a slight whine to his tone. He's tired, and likely disturbed. It's been a good year since Scout woke up like this, and then he was at least alone, saving himself some embarrassment. "C'mon, let's get some sleep,"

Assured, Sniper lays back down in the sheets of his narrow bed and invites Scout a place on his chest. And Scout likes having the metronome to tide him over to slumber, reminding him that whatever he might dream, so long as he can hear that, they're both alive and that's what counts. But today, Scout stays sat up, half-remembering, and trying to forget.

"If I fall asleep," Scout swallows. "I might have that dream again."

Sniper looks at him very seriously. "Whatever it is you're dreamin' about-" Monsters, or foes, or something more and more recognisable and destructive and human. "-if it wants you, it's gonna have to fight me first," He laughs, gently, with such good intent. All of these men around Scout: they all have great intentions, and great ambitions. They're good: like, deep-down, uncorrupted kind of good that makes Scout admire them, even if he won't admit it.

That Sniper would offer to fight these things that wake Scout, screaming and horrified-...it does mean something. Even if it's not something he can hold or spend.

In even better faith, Sniper says, "You want to tell me what you were dreaming about?"

And Scout says," No."

He lays down, still a little shaken, but for a larger part relaxed. Then he's laying against Sniper's skin and all the marks he's left there with his nails. The man looks different during sex: or maybe Scout has just never looked hard enough. He likes the hardness of Sniper's complexion: likes the scar across his cheek, and his eyes, best of all. The man gives nothing away, and Scout likes that. He knows he was Sniper's first experience with another man.

But Sniper wasn't his.

Trying to get back to sleep is difficult. It gets worse when Scout turns and lays on his back, and Sniper's hand hooks itself underneath his back. In a harmless gesture, Sniper's palm is half-on his stomach, and the touch is burning. There's no visible change. He looks the same –no, he is the same as he always was. Above all things, Scout doesn't want this to change him, make him into something he's not.

He turns onto his side. Has he been discrete enough? Does Sniper know?

Scout swallows. "I'll tell you about the dream," He says. Sniper goes to sit up, actually eager. Jesus, Scout is always blindsided by how much people actually value him. The saddest part is that he still doesn't really believe it. "But you gotta tell me somethin' about you, first. Somethin' ain't nobody else knows,"

Honesty and vulnerability aren't two things Scout will give anybody for free. His Ma always said never to do something well for free, and it's good advice. Scout doesn't really care too much what Sniper says, but he wants leverage. He doesn't want to have his own nightmares ridiculed without insurance.

The older man shrugs. "I hate olives," He shrugs.

Scout shoves him hard. "Naw." He shakes his head. "Somethin' real. Important," and from the look on Sniper's face, that isn't the safest sentiment ever proposed. It's a fair trade. There's so little anybody really knows about Scout. A window to the boy's inner workings must be pretty tempting.

"Fine," There is a good pause between them. It's not something Scout has ever done before, or considered doing. He knows that in normal, healthy relationships, there is trust. And that without trust, there is no love, but he made no promises. "I don't-" He sighs.

"I don't call my parents anymore," Sniper makes a point of not looking at Scout. "I'm afraid to tell my dad that the family name has come to an end,"

Scout pretends not to be astounded. But he is, because beneath all of this mess: all of these layers of stoic concentration, Sniper bleeds, and he laughs and Scout lets himself forget people are human sometimes, because of his own anxiety, because his own humanity distracts him. When the silence clears, Sniper is looking at him. "Your dream?"

Scout can feel himself blanching. "It's a memory." He says, quietly. The air seems to rest on the top of his words in anticipation. This is important, but Scout has to remind himself, it's safe, too. He doesn't have to pretend to be so sure here. "We has a couple of bible-bashers in my neighbourhood. Nothin' psychotic, but they were both two years older than me, an' both on the football team. Y'know the kind?"

Sniper does.

Scout tries hard to to relive every moment with the words he's using, but the words have meaning and context, and they're real, and he can feel that year's summer drought clear as his voice picks up again. "An' these two...products-" This is the hardest thing he has ever done. "They tied me to a fence in the meadow. An' beat me up 'til I couldn't even see, and left me for dead."

He closes his eyes. He tries not to feel the drowning, but it's hard, and it hurts. "Ma said when they found me, the only skin you could see on my face were-" He gestures, vaguely, staggering through the horror of the past, of the smell of summer like Boston burning. All because he didn't believe in their 'goodness', their version of 'right'.

Scout swallows. "The only skin you could see on my face were the lines the tears'd cut through,"

The only thing Sniper manages to say is, "Jesus,". Scout can't bring himself to move, but that's okay, because he's brought back into warm arms, back into the present where he's okay and alive: where the mesh of rope doesn't make his wrists sticky with blood. What kind of home could Scout stay in where it was seen as better to kill a man than to love one?

Scout's the victor, though. He makes sure to mention that. "It's okay," Is what he says. "If anybody ever tries it again, I'll be ready,"

-

Scout goes though the rest of the day thoughtlessly.

He sits outside in the evening, the sky dusty with starlight, the quiet large and lovely. He misses the noise of Boston sometimes. The insane mishmash of yells and traffic and people –living and laughing and shouting at eachother in the early hours of the morning. But he likes it fine here.

He tries smoking one of the cigarettes Spy left him. He enjoys smoking a lot, but can't seem to get the hang of it very well. At 13, a friend tried to teach him how to blow rings of smoke, but Scout could never make dying beautiful.

He goes through six in the sitting, too consumed with making an art of the lilac smoke to notice. Time goes by. Hell, even dinner goes by, but he can't seem to muster hunger.

Scout thinks on his dreams. He thinks on each of his lovers, and then of Medic's quiet, sad diagnosis. All of these things, they come at him with force, they tie him to the fence all over again: he feels helpless. They don't trust him enough to be a man, but burden him with the problems of one, and then call him a child.

Scout blows a stream of smoke in one huff and tries to think about something else. He leans back on his hands and says, "Jesus."

Something warm is draped around his shoulders, and he realises belatedly it's a blanket. Spy takes up residence besides him, curling his hand around a cigarette elegantly, lighting it and taking a drag, making it look so simple and nice. Scout could watch him all night.

"You seem to 'ave much on your mind?" The statement is spun until it resembles a question. It makes Scout smile, the grappling with a language he can so easily disgrace. But instead of giving much away, he shrugs, and brings the dying cigarette to his mouth, savouring the rush of nicotine, and the desire for more. "There are quicker ways to die, cheri,"

Scout laughs. "Yeah, but they don't look half as cool,"

And Spy laughs with him, genuine and golden. "Per'aps you are right." He blows a perfect ring of smoke and Scout watches it as it drifts off into the night. He;'s grateful for the blanket. And for every single scar. Comfortable in the knowledge they are alone, he rests his head against Spy's shoulder. How nice it is to see the man's face, for once, handsome an drawn, with a shock of grey hair down the front and sides. "What would your precious Medic say to this new habit?"

Scout shifts, awkwardly. "Can say what he likes." He shrugs. "S'not like he owns me, y'know."

Spy takes a fast drag and does nothing at all graceful with the smoke. He looks down at Scout with fondness. "But of course. I was not implying that," In the starlight, Spy looks a little younger. "Our dear Docteur seems to 'ave no appreciation for this art."

Scout shrugs. He wants to bite Spy's lip and kiss him so hard he suck Medic's name right of of Spy's mouth to prevent it ever coming up in their conversations. "Maybe he ain't elegant," Scout sighs, "But he did save my ass a couple'a times today,"

Spy makes a noise of agreement. He smokes some more, and Scout's grateful for it. It strikes him at a weird moment, that Ma said something about not being able to smoke, and having to give it up, when she was having children. Not that he cares at all, really, but it does make him feel a little less enthralled.

Scout smiles. "You know how I'd like to die?"

Spy stares at him.

"I really mean –how I'd like to kill myself," he's not actually talking to Spy any-more. He's just talking out loud, and getting it all out, and Spy is just listening. He's good at that. "Not in a morbid way or nothin' –yeah, I know what morbid means." That gets a laugh from the both of them.

"I'd like to put poison into something' that tastes real good. Like chocolate cake, or whatever,"

The silence is comfortable between words. He doesn't feel forced to speak at all.

"Then again," Scout makes a face," It's probably taste real bad after that. An' it ain't practical to wait for food to cook," He laughs again, and stubs out his own cigarette, that seems to have lost it's appeal or flavour. It doesn't really matter. "I don't even know why I'm thinkin' about this."

Spy is content enough to listen.

So Scout continues. "I mean, I'm fuckin' young. An'-...I don't even like cake that much, y'know?" He laughs again. "I mean, that just don't make any sense,"

And then he looks at Spy with the fullness of his own honesty. "I guess none of this really makes any sense,"

-

Scout smokes three cigarettes in bed. He lies over-the-covers, shirt off, trousers on. He stares at his stomach and says nothing. Words are scary. This whole concept is scary, and that chocolate cake is sounding more and more tempting.

Conflicted, he stands, and goes to his mirror. He knows he looks terrible, but vanity doesn't posses him in the moment. Scout turns sideways and looks at his own body. He knows it so well, but here he is, making sense of this.

Like a stranger in a town he recognises.

The strangest part is looking the same. Being the same. Part of Scout wishes that he looked a little worse, or better. It would at least give him some kind of incentive. Like this, he can just ignore the problem. To an extent, he has been.

What Ma said has stayed with him, despite his best intentions. Scout wants to be loved. He wants to be able to give everything to somebody. He wants one his lovers to feel obliged to stay with him. Then he'd be part of something structured, and it would make sense. He would never be alone.

He smokes one more cigarette, and closes his eyes. He only has three days left to decide.

-

That morning, he joins the usual suspects out on the high ledge of Teufort, above a small backyard of junk that Engineer sometimes goes picking around in. Soldier smokes a cigar without talking, apparently well-trained in morning etiquette enough not to speak. Sniper leans out and surveys the barren desert, endarting his eyes deeper. Spy remains eloquent, and Scout watches him. He's unused to this routine, and isn't sure what to do.

He can't blow rings of smoke. He feels as if he'll never stop being the youngest child.

"That's a hell of a drop," He says, shortly, tired from a sleepless night. Spy smiles to him, fondly. It's harder to tell what Sniper is thinking behind his glasses. "You guys don't even get a railin' or nothin'?"

Spy laughs, and flicks his ash, watching it dive down the enormous drop and onto a piece of scrap below. "We 'ave spatial awareness," He laughs, and glances over his shoulder at Sniper, who is mute, and caught up in his own thoughts. "Most of us, at least,"

Sniper looks over his shoulder tiredly. "I can do more damage sittin' up here than you can do in an hour on the ground, spook,"

Spy laughs, "Apparently-"

Maybe Scout doesn't like him so much as a person, but he has his eternal gratitude when Soldier pipes up. "Alright, ladies,"

And the irony only hits him after he has spent the day fighting foes worse than you or I can imagine. It hits him after he has showered, and survived, and escaped capture or unwanted attention from the BLU Medic, after burning to death twice, and then being diced by a rocket launch. It doesn't hit him until he's smoking, up on the perch, after the battle, leaning out over the drop.

Scout used to be disappointed at how opaque people are. But not it;s the transparency that gets to him. The sunset looks just like the sunrise and the days start blending after a while. He sighs, and flicks his cigarette down the steep drop. Just begging trouble.

Spy says, "If you are looking to kill yourself, please," he smiles, "Stick to cigarettes,"

They are alone on the overhang. Scout thinks it would be a great place to fuck: threatened by weather or being caught or falling. The extraneous variables and danger make it worthwhile. But he doesn't feel excellent, so he stores the thought for later. It's nice out.

"You 'ave recovered from your existential crisis?" Spy laughs. It's that laughter that gets to Scout. What he fears most is having everything he confesses in a moment of weakness being found worthless or embarrassing. "Or would you still like some cake with you-"

Scout turns to hi, hissing slightly. "That ain't funny, alright?" He grumbles as he looks out at the fall. "Just –just forget I ever said anythin', okay?"

Spy always assumes consent. That's his thing, in a way. It's infuriating and unhealthy, especially when he blows cigarette smoke into Scout's eyes and grins. "Forgetting something that interessant would be a lesson in futility, non?"

Scout raises a hand blindly to hit him, because he's had a damn long day and he's embarrassed and he has too much to think about. The moment he brings it down with force, Spy grabs his wrist with this strange, vice-like grip, and doesn't let go. "Control yourself, cher,"

Scout tugs his arm back furiously, reeling. "You get your damn hands offa me," He demands, his eyes narrowing. Spy looks altogether too calm, staring at Scout like he's a child, and if he only knew the shit going on, maybe he'd have a little sympathy. Scout would rather face this then say, any day.

But the grip on his hand is starting to get painful. "You're-" He rears back again, stumbling a little. "You're hurting me, you ass!"

Spy doesn't have a chance to explain himself to the emerging Sniper, an unlit cigarette resting between his pretty lips. He reads only the looks of complete disgruntlement on Scout's face, and the way he's being held. It means something to Scout, this defensiveness, but it scares him, too. Especially as Sniper tears Spy off of him with this ease and malice.

Scout falls onto his ass and stares at the both of them, winded.

And Spy doesn't appreciate that. He swings hard with the intention of leaving scars. There's a small spray of blood on the wood. Scout is standing in a second. He knows how to break up a fight.

"Alright, you had enough!" He shouts, the smallest of the three, but standing between them with this unquestioned authority. They're still not apart, like schoolchildren picking fights over pride.

"I'm not done wi' him," the words are hot and nasty and they've both got their prise tangled up in this. Scout would admire Sniper's valour if he wasn't so tired. "He shouldn't-"

"I wouldn't hesitate to kill you," Spy says, coldly. "You repulsive-"

Scout is screaming now, his throat already sore as it is. "That's enough!" But nobody listens. In fact, another punch gets thrown, and Scout is scrambling back so as not get to get caught in the fray. He tries to break it apart, but he's tired and small and pride is more powerful than love, at any rate. What overrides it all is jealousy. He's at the edge of the balcony, sensing the drop beneath his feet, still trying to tear the fighting apart.

"You done?!" He knows it's getting out of hand a second too late.

He knows because his foot slips.

The irony hits him during the fall. As the sound of arguing becomes distant and all he can hear is the whistling of the wind, he knows it's going to hurt, and he's made so many mistakes, but it isn't just before he hits the ground that he realises changing his mind wouldn't be one of them. Scout realises how badly he wants to be loved just as his spine collides with the ground and shockwaves of impact are sent through his body.

And just as he lands in the sheets of hard metal and debris does the nail pierce him.

The nail remains standing, and passes through his back, continuing through what must be his kidneys, and out, pointing skyward. The pain is unbelievable, burning white-hot and consuming, overtaking any possible fractures and concussions. Scout curls up and goes to touch the wound, unsure of why the pain is so intense, of why he can't seem to breathe properly.

He wails.

Oh God. Oh Christ, the agony. Rivulets of soupy blood start painting his side and start saturating his shirt, and he knows there is a torrent spilling over his insides. He screams hard and sits up, drawing in these noisy breaths that are devoid of all oxygen. The impaling nail is still standing to attention through his side, and Scout can't move and he's bleeding and the pain is like fire, spreading throughout all of him.

His voice is heavy with the agony when he calls out for somebody. Oh, God, it's tearing through him and his vision is unsteady. He has to lay back down, but makes a hard fist around the wound, trying to tear apart the nerves sending these bolts of pain leaving him tight and weak and sobbing incoherently as he stares at the sky, waiting for anybody.

He lifts a hand to his head and it comes back rosy. Scout is sobbing. "Medic-..." There's no way his whisper is audible enough. He lays stock-still and tries to regulate his breathing. He rests too much weight on his side at time, and can feel every millimetre more than the nail impales him. He screams again for help.

Everything is hazy by the time he hears voices.

And he knows it's them, and he can hear these hurried footsteps, and Medic appears above him in a second. His face is stalingrad white when he speaks.

"Gott..." Scout has never seen him in doubt before. Never seen him frozen, and it scares him. Medic swallows, and his eyes dart around. "I can't use the medigun on him while the nail is still in there,"

Scout tries to pretend he doesn't know what that means.

"I'm going to try to pull it out." Medic turns back to him. "You must be still,"

Scout grabs the hand that moves towards his injury. He shakes his head furiously, the tears spilling down his temples. He breathes 'I can't' and prays to God Medic can hear him. He can't hear over the sound of his own pulse, and everything turns grey. He feels Medic's hand around the top of the nail. It feels as if he is inside of Scout, pulling his innards out, painting the floor with his blood.

He starts to pull.

"Stop!" Scout is begging him as loudly as he can. "Jesus, I can't-"

Medic's face is fixed in anguish. "Please, Scout." He takes one of Scout's hands and gives it a squeeze, as if for good luck. "I will be only an instant."

How long is an instant, anyway? Instant rice takes a minute. Instant pudding takes an hour, and Scout is certain the second Medic tears out the nail, and his kidneys open up and the bleeding starts to come in fast and his lungs catch fire in his chest it won't feel particularly instantaneous.

Scout just nods.

The birds on the roof of the fort abandon their perches when his scream tears through the building. His throat must be bleeding by the time Medic is done, casting the nail into the dirt besides him, and gathering the limp, pathetic boy up into his arms.

Scout feels himself slipping into unconsciousness as his trousers start to bloom poppy-red with blood. "That weren't no instant," He whimpers. Medic still looks terrified. He tries to smile when he looks down at the boy. He tries to laugh, but it gets caught and it just sounds tragic.

The lights of the infirmary are the only thing he can see when he finally stops moving. There is something cold under his back. The lights look like halos. His breath sounds like the ocean, and maybe the mercenaries here think they're angels, eyes like the sea, hearing halos like balding spots but they;re liars, all of them. Scout can't keep his thoughts straight. He thinks of being tired to the fence. He remembers every punch like a personal instantly, remembers talking to Spy, his first cigarette. He is drowning in these thoughts, feeling softness and seeing pink mist surrounding him.

And he knows he isn't thinking right, but the blood isn't returning fast enough and Medic looks just like an angel. He could be one, he really could. Scout stares up at him dizzily.

"You carried me," He realises, after a moment. Medic is sitting in a chair across the room. His front is sodden and sticky with blood. Scout thinks 'I did that'. Medic just nods. There's not much else to say on the matter.

Scout realises belatedly, also, that he just interrupted Medic praying.

"why didn't you just kill me?" Scout asks, sitting up slowly. His clothes are syrupy with his own blood, but his body is free of wounds. "Respwan would have picked me up,"

Medic shrugs. "Perhaps I wasn't just trying to save you," he says, quietly. And them he laughs, bitterly, standing up. "On reflection, I suppose it was rather futile,"

He crosses the room and opens the cage door to a few of his doves, taking one out and stroking it. He dotes upon them so completely, which is the only fancy he really has.

It hits Scout that perhaps Medic has doves, because he has no children. So he watches.

And Medic is so gentle with them. Scout is all caught-up in watching, but when one of them flies over and perches on his shoulder, he tries to bat it away. The glare he receives is harsh.

"Careful, Scout." Medic's pretty good at pulling a command. Scout is listening in a second. "There's no need to hurt him. He's taken a fancy to you ever since he got stuck in your chest cavity."

Birds. At this point, Scout actually prefers children.

-

Scout spends the night alone. He's thinking. When the next day arrives, he goes and and fights hard, runs fast, leaves scars. But he does not call for a Medic. He avoids the rush of dinner, and even the showers, despite getting pretty dirty and roughed-up in battle.

Medic sits in his infirmary, in surgical scrubs, all night. He waits for a boy who never comes.

And Scout spends the entire night smoking. He pats his stomach softly and blows a slightly demented ring of smoke. The decision is hasty and silly, and maybe he's only doing this to please other people, or to have somebody to love and meed him.

When midnight comes, and the day is formally over, Medic peels off his gloves. He laughs his way to the telephone in his office and dials for Germany. He goes through the operator with a manic glees and then the moment he hears a response on the other line, he laughs.

"Meine schwester," He choruses. "Ich denke, ich werde ein vater sein."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's midnight i'm singing john mayer i have had no sleep yeah lets do this lets go kill a guy


	4. IV

It's true, romance is dead. Scout watches it get shot through the head and the heart.

It's only getting hotter and the fights are only getting nastier, and who knows what the Intel contains, but when Scout got cornered by a Spy bearing a rose, and a smirk that he recognised, he never even realised the BLU's knew.

He didn't even see the knife, and yet, the dead BLU Spy has the weapon outstretched, the rose in his other hand. He folds, pathetically, and slumps onto the ground without so much as a groan.

Scout hears somebody tutting. "My dear american," Spy says, with a charming smile. He emerges at Scout's back, and holds him close. "You are so naïve,"

-

Scout has never felt ashamed of what he does. He says he likes his choices fine. Of course he does.

He never considered them as sins.

The BLU Scout has shorter, darker hair. Looks meaner, thinner, starved, but hungry for all the wrong things anyway. But goddamn, he's strong, and Scout is pretty sure his left leg has been broken by the twitch of an aluminium bat. He's held up against the wall by his throat. The world shimmers, but he can breathe for the most part.

What he can't tolerate is the hot breath in his ear. Sounds just like his Id, incarnate and fierce and strong –Jesus, stronger than Scout ever imagined.

"C'mon, sweetheart," The BLU croons like a serpent-charmer. The threat of his gun is present, but his words confuse Scout's memory of the Salient: of what his enemy is really after. The blood is running thick down his leg. Shards of bone are cracked like marble at the ankle, and every now and then he has to put weight on it not to choke. "I heard you liked all of this,"

The assumption is almost as repugnant as the BLU Scout himself: Scout sees everything he doesn't want to and rears back against the wood. He has nowhere to go. "Get fuck-" With a dull malice, the BLU Scout strokes the compound fracture with the tip of his bat and grins.

"You wanna know what else I heard?" He grins. "Only thing easier than dyin' is you." The BLU Scout decides as he tears through his lower lip with a menacing geniality. But he's doing a fine job of holding Scout in place, taking him on a waltz of hypocrisy. "Least, that's what they say,"

Right now, Scout would rather die than call out for anybody. He always thought is deadly sin was pride.

He's assaulted once more with a smile he knows a little too well. "An' they say mothers prefer doctors, an' lawyers." A laugh. "But other than that, he's clean-lookin' and respectable-lookin', and I heard you got a real appreciation for a natural man,"

Scout spits at him. He doesn't have to listen to this. "I said, blow me-"

BLU Scout swings hard with intent and the world becomes even shinier. He can taste iron and the mistake creeping up his throat. By the neck, he's dragged back to standing.

"'Sept I heard you fucked 'em all," BLU Scout drinks in every displeasure, as if it serves as his only purpose. The smell of fear, and blood seems to thrill him more than Scout's sins of the flesh ever could. "Heard you ain't even fussy. When they get lonely or homesick,they come callin', but don't come near you after-"

Scout remembers Medic's face, closed to everything. He thinks about Sniper –about the word 'fine' and feels that burn n his chest that feels like betrayal -feels Spy's touch become cold and mocking. It chokes him harder than the fist closed around his throat.

He thrusts forward with a great surge of energy and catches BLU Scout on the temple with his brow. It hurts like a bitch, and everything greys for a minute, slowing in the other direction. Even though he can't see, he can hear the swearing, and he tries to feel around for a the bat, or a pistol: anything but his hands.

The gun is cold and he drops it once, before scrambling on his stomach towards it. The BLU is fierce and incredibly angry. The boy's nose is broken, and he comes at Scout with such malice, like every breath is a personal offence: it's scary.

Scout fires wildly. He misses the first two shots, but manages to get enough shots into the kid's chest that he chokes, and drops, and doesn't get up.

The room is smoky and smells like gunshot, nerves and treachery. He scrawls over to the far wall and takes in deep breaths. It's not usually this nasty. He isn't usually kept alive that long. The adrenaline from the pain and from so many near-misses, even for today, make Scout feel very nervous, and very light-headed.

That would have been fine –normal, even, if the BLU Scout hadn't pulled that line. 'Mothers prefer doctors and lawyers'. He thinks about his own mother, and then about himself. What is he?

The blood runs lukewarm on the ground. He's a muse, a passion of the pistol. He is everything BLU Scout of accused him of, and worse: he's a liar. How can he face Medic like this? Without explanation or reason, without anything to his name. How can he face any of them?

Scout knows that respawn will have the enemy Scout on him with renewed hatred. He reloads the pistol and leans hard against the wall.

He's never really felt ashamed of himself. Even when he doesn't like his choices, he sticks with them, because nobody ever got punished for lust, right? He aligns the pistol on his temple and sighs. Maybe he's a sinner, but the water will wash it all away, and tomorrow morning, he will resurrect himself in every little death another man enjoys.

Scout dies with a smile on his face.

-

The day wears on. Evening comes with the disappointment of failure.

It's a taste Scout isn't too familiar with, and one he doesn't like. At times like these, it would be easy, he thinks, to go on a witch hunt, and blame any one member of the team for the failure, but there's a surprising, and almost begrudging sense of solidarity among them.

The first time Scout ever got caught with another member of the team, Soldier had said 'they might be faggots, but they're RED faggots, and that's all I'm instructed to care about'. It remains, to the day, one of the nicest and most powerful gestures Scout has seen.

The showers run in complete silence. Every mercenary is, to different degrees, worn down. Sniper has spider-web cuts all over him, most likely from the enemy spy. Even Heavy is sporting some kind of bruise, despite how difficult it is to get near him. They're superficial, and respawn usually cleans them off the next day, but it adds to the feel of resignation. There are no speeches or discussions, or even vague acknowledgements of the fight at all, really.

Scout is damn glad for it.

And he knows he shouldn't pay anything BLU any mind at all, for they'd only mean to use him, but the more he thinks on it, the more true it is. And when he dries off in the locker room, already stung-stained with disappointment over the day, he can feel them watching him. It isn't with a want, or a fondness. He dresses fast and tries to pay it no mind.

At the back of his locker, that just catches his eyes before he swings it shut, is something small and bright. Scout isn't the tallest member of the team, but he isn't the smallest, either. H climbs to his toes and reaches in, fumbling until he pulls out a packet of cigarettes –and nice ones, too, with a single red ribbon around them.

He mumbles, "Asshole," but his breathing is saying something different that he hopes nobody can hear. Scout isn't the sort of boy you get presents for, but then again, he never made to buy anybody flowers, so he can't complain. The surprise makes him blush a little. The first time he met Spy, the man was arrogant and aloof and chose his words a little too carefully, and Scout had said he would pity the fool that fell for him.

But Scout doesn't feel pity. It's something else: like a mixture of complacency and concern. Why is it always a mixture?

Still, Scout doesn't linger. Being melancholy and pensive and quiet gets old very quickly, and it's not his time or speed. His worry is having Medic confront him in front of them all. Scout doesn't like secrets, he isn't supposed to, but now he has to. Even in his mind, no decision has been reached. Not really. Half of him is still waiting for them to turn around and laugh at his fears –to tell him this has all been a joke, and he can go back to living his life.

He leaves the locker room with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He doesn't want to think. He just wants to smoke. They get moved around enough, to all different kinds of places, and Scout would blush to think about complaining, but if he doesn't get out from under the eyes of his teammates occasionally, Scout knows he'll go crazier than a shithouse rat.

Lost in concentration, he doesn't resister the voice in his ear until it's very loud. A gentle hand is on his arm.

"You going my way?" He turns, still half-dazed, and sees Sniper, in just a white vest. His face is healthy with colour and open. He looks right through Scout and at something else, which has apparent worth. Scout's mouth opens, and then closes. "Want a light?"

Scout makes a noise of approval. He finds it a little ironic that in the mornings everybody mobs spy for a half-second of flame, when Pyro is stalking about with what is, essentially, a giant lighter. Though, Scout would like to think he's a little smarter than to put his face near it. It hits him once more that if his decision if final, and he wants to –well, if he wants to do anything for this kid, he probably shouldn't smoke, or drink.

Sniper looks too good to refuse tonight.

They walk out to the overhang in moderate silence, and Scout sees two posts and some hastily-erected tape standing there like some kind of safety net. It's a nice gesture, but there's something also nasty underlying in it. Still not speaking, he looks out at the vastness of nothing and sighs. The sooner they get moved to another outpost, the better. It's too hot here, and there's too much of his own blood lying around.

Sniper looks conflicted. He pulls a face, and takes the cigarette from his mouth. All he says is, "Are you angry with me?" In this quiet voice. And usually, Scout doesn't mind that Sniper can be like this, but he's tired and he doesn't have the patience for this puppy-dog bullshit today.

So Scout sighs sharply and says. "Well, you oughtta know if you did somethin' wrong,"

Sniper stands straighter, physically affected by Scout's words. He thinks too much. He is too much. "You're angry with me, because of Spy," he spits the words like another man's poison, but his method of expressing care towards Scout is so much more toxic.

Scout tips his ash on to the wood. "I don't hafta listen to this," He says, eyes cast downward.

Sniper is staring hard at him. "I didn't have to do that –hell, I didn't want t-"

"I never asked for your freakin' help, okay!?" Scout whirls on his, his eyes like warnings because he's tired, and he's sick of having to wade through every conversation they have waist-deep in sniper's 'good intent', and his best intentions and want for something more. He looks at Scout like he sees something more, and it's sweet, but it's superstition. In his eyes, Scout is a false god, by no doing of his own.

He crushes the cigarette on the wall and grimaces. "I ain't a kid. Believe it or not, I can handle Spy jus' fine,"

Sniper is faster, and isn't hurt as easily as Scout thought. The man is so used to being alone, and he's seen more of the world, experienced more of the world. Scout shouldn't mean a thing to him, it should be trivial, superfluous, irrelevant-...

"I have no trouble believing that," Sniper says. "You're a prize wanker-" Scout gives him a bemused look. "You are. And it's not hard to believe that I might be a little-..." Aloof? Infuriating? Scout puts one arm akimbo and tried to look as unfeeling as possible.

"A little?" he's a little slow, for want of prompting. Sniper rolls his eyes, and maybe he's embarrassed about something. Probably of Scout: but that's okay.

In a tiny voice. "Jealous."

Scout explodes into graceless and abrasive laughter. He thinks about cheap wine, and fucking Spy against a wall, the side of a door, rough and unceremonious in his satin sheets. Little he knows, but his assumptions are enormous. It's unfair to laugh, and he does right himself eventually, trying to suppress the curl of his smile.

Sniper throws the corpse of his own cigarette at Scout's feet and looks very despondent. "Wanker," He mutters, and even laugh Scout is still laughing, just a little, he makes his way over to Sniper, and puts his arms around him. He allows himself whatever pleasures comes from the moment, none like what he's used to, but something different. Scout feels warmer, and comforted. Less world-weary, all of a sudden.

"Y'know," Scout says, because he's always saying something. "When I first came here, I was kinda creeped out by you,"

Sniper isn't too impressed with the quality of conversation.

"What?" Scout shoots him a look. "I mean, you never spoke to anybody an' you'd lived in the yardback-"

"Outback,"

"Whatever," The boy rolls his eyes. "I mean, you threw jars of piss at people. What was I supposed to think?"

It hits Scout he should probably, even implicitly, say something about the situation they're in. He loves denial as much as the next guy, but Scout's fully aware that he can bury his head in the sand for the nest nine months and hope nobody else will notice. Just this morning, Scout passed a mirror and thought he was looking a little less starved.

Sniper chuckles. He rubs the top of Scout's back, between his shoulderblades. "Do you still think that I'm a scary aborigine that's a million years old?" It gets a laugh, but Scout sees through the translucency of the jest and what he sees makes him sad.

"Naw, man." He mumbles into Sniper's shoulder. "I think you're really handsome an' shit."

He swallows.

"I figured for a long time you'd be married. Y'know-" It's so difficult to vocalise. Part of Scout wants to hand him a scientific ecumenist and ask for his signature but he can't, so he has to dance around lexis and semantics. "House, babies, the whole thing."

He feels the shoulder he's leaning against rise and fall. "I've been tellin' people 'someday' for too long now,"

Scout shrugs. "Well, ya never know."

And suddenly he doesn't feel very warm at all.

-

After another week and a half of losses and artful evasion, Scout resigns to see Medic.

This is only after being chased down, quite literally. Scout could feel those eyes on him at every meal, every coinciding respawn, every shower. Now, Medic is pretty intimidating as it is, but he's even harder to hide from. No corner of the battlefield is safe from him –hell, no scrap of Teufort is not under his tyranny. He has torn cigarettes from between Scout's pretty lips more than once.

And even though Medic famously said it wasn't his decision, he seems to be calling the shots.

He sits, once more with his precious papers, and a drink of the stiff sort, as Scout stands in front of his desk, like a scolded child. He feels in his pocket for the gift packet of cigarettes, a sweet gesture from Spy, who picks his moments. He fumbles for one and puts it between his lips, boredly.

Before he can even snap the zippo lighter on, Medic clears his throat. "If you light that, I can guarantee you a watschen."

Now, Scout doesn't know what a wastchen is, but he knows well enough when Medic is being playful, and when he wouldn't hesitate to grab Scout by the collar and deliver the mother of all watschens. So he slips the lighter back into his pocket and perches himself on the edge of the desk. This has been a long time coming.

Scout jams his fists into his pockets and rocks a little. "I thought you'd be happy about this, Doc. I thought you wanted kids and-"

Medic takes another nip of whatever he's drinking, still half-reading. He shakes his head.

"If you have made this decision based on what you think will please me, I beg you to reconsider." Now, the role of lord and master does suit Medic in a way, but Scout doesn't much like being talked to like this. In his head, there were streamers and music and smiles. It was supposed to be like a ticker-tape parade, but instead, he's in a dark office, being ordered about. He swings his legs and shrugs. Medic gives him a hard look and sighs.

"This is important." He says, slowly, as if Scout is somehow struggling to understand his native language. "It will undoubtedly affect you for the rest of your life." A small, tight smile. "I think you can afford to be selfish."

Scout is still waiting to be convinced. Ma convinced him to signing up for RED, Spy convinced him into sex, he was convinced by so many things just to be here. This isn't the first decision Scout wants to make, and to be honest, one he thought he'd never have to. What if there's a wrong answer? How can he distinguish between the two?

He looks at Medic, helplessly, fearfully. He wants to be set free of all of this.

"Why didn't you come, before?" The question is asked in a gentle, but certain voice. "Something must have changed your mind."

He can't say. For the first time, Scout is at a genuine loss for words. He doesn't want to be alone. Never. It's his worst fear, but it sounds childish even to him, so to have to declare it aloud would confirm Scout's fears that he really is shallow, and worthless and embarrassing. He's scared that his enemy knows him better than he does: and he would rather crawl to Medic's bones than sleep alone.

So he shrugs, again, and Medic takes another drink. Like clockwork.

After a while, Medic breaks the silence. "I have a proposal,"

Scout is certain it isn't the kind of proposal he's thinking of. If he says that, Medic will laugh at him, so he just nods, mutely. Palms exposed. He makes a point of it.

"Like a versuch –trial, for you." He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Without them, he looks very different. Maybe that's because Scout can't divorce them from Medic as a whole. He looks so much more...normal. Like he's lost part of himself in losing them. He has wonderful eyes. "I will give you a full examination, and give you all of the information you require on continuing with this pregnancy." He nods to himself. "I will do this for four weeks."

Scout looks at him hard. "An' then?"

"Then you must decide." He says. Scout's whole body tenses up. He swallows hard and looks at his shoes. It's real, all of a sudden. This abstract, implausible concept has physical presence. It made Scout sick for weeks, and yet, he feels obliged, or that he has some kind of duty. There's no help from anywhere; he'll go to hell before he breathes a word of this to Spy, and Sniper is too savvy to believe anything Scout says in honest.

He nods without saying a word, because if he were to speak right now, he'd choke, and sound even more pathetic than he looks.

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, and Medic is actually smiling to him, holding sympathy out like a lifeline. "I should give you a watschen now for getting into all of this mess, spatz,"

He doesn't give Scout a watschen. He shouts at him, when Scout tries to light just one cigarette, but lets the boy have the solitary smoke without the raising of any hand.

When the moment have passed, and enough reality has been digested, he takes charge once more. Scout doesn't mind: he doesn't think he's stable enough right now to be calling any shots, regardless of what side of the gun he stands on. He's nervous, though, for whatever reason. At first, Scout figures he's being silly. At least, until medic gives him that winning smile and flicks the end of a needle gently.

"I only have to give you three vaccines," He promises. When it's said like that, it might as well be a beach holiday to the tropics. But, of course, one of those doesn't usually involve this much complaining or difficulty. Scout shakes his head.

"But I ain't sick,"

Medic rolls his eyes like he's heard it all before. Not that he hasn't, but it's still a little insensitive. "That's not why we administer vaccines," he says, plainly. "And it's not for you,"

Scout gives him a nervous glance and stammers a little. "How are you going to get to-"

It's stressful enough to have to listen to Scout. He sighs, and allows himself a small snigger. "Perhaps we could leave the science to me." He says. "Please, smoke up if it will quiet you,"

At first, the questions are endearing. This late into the evening, with the day Medic has had, this stops pretty quickly. The boy lounges on the examination table, yawning slightly, staring unhelpfully as Medic wheels in heavy machines that he didn't think he'd be touching again so soon.

"What's that?" He continues about his work, now assembling them, making sure not to overload any sockets, making sure he still remembers how everything works. Scout's voice is crisp as thunder when he speaks up. "What's that?" He sounds a little more determined now.

Medic grumbles. "Ultrasound."

Scout blinks at him. "Does it hurt?"

Well, at least his heart's in it. The evening must be transitioning to morning, and he hasn't gotten much rest. Their losses will only keep increasing. He takes a bottle of water-based gel, aware of how little of anything he has. "Not a bit, spatz,"

"An' what does it do?" Scout laughs, nervously. "I do trust you, Doc, but I ain't never done anything like this before." he is scared. That must be the first moment Medic actually realises it, and Scout forgives him for spending a life misunderstand people.

Scout knows people are more complicated than Medic's silly little microbes, but he keeps quiet. They're both tired enough.

The great machine whirs into life. The sound scares Scout some more. The promise of no pain doesn't put him entirely at ease, but it's the best he can do. He tries to relax, because that might affect something, and he doesn't want to annoy Medic anymore.

"Could you remove your shirt, bitte?" He complies without a word, propped up on his palms, looking at Medic like he'd follow him into oblivion.

Scout has always liked the way he looks. He has captivated the older gentlemen using them, and so many blushing girls and red-faced boys. Scout likes his choices, sometimes, and he likes his body. Now if the first time he doesn't. He feels a little bit like a prisoner, now, because Medic isn't looking at him with desire, but with something Scout wholeheartedly rejects as a concept.

He says nothing when Medic places a large, soft palm on his abdomen and nods, always taking notes. The change is pretty slight, and it's not obvious to those who don't see Scout's body so often. But he notices the slight swell. He supposes it's only going to get worse.

Then comes the cold. Scout's whole body curls in, and he shivers. "Dammnit, Doc, you could have warned me," He says, bitterly, trying once more to relax. "What the hell is this stuff?"

Medic tuts, and picks up what really can only be described as a paint-roller in appearance. A little smaller, and not covered in some obscene colour for the shed in the back garden. He's very reluctant to have all of these mystery substances and pieces of equipment on him at once, but Medic seems to know what he's going, and Scout trusts that enough.

A series of vague, monochrome etchings appear on a small screen nearest Medic, and he seems to use that as a reference in his movements. Scout squints his way to an aneurysm uselessly, unsure of what he's seeing. The shapes become more and more defined, over seconds, and then he leans back, staggered completely.

He lifts a hand. "Is that-"

It's the second time he has ever seen Medic smile like that, completely swung open, unguarded in his joy. "Ja," With his other hand, naked of it's usual glove, he points. "Developed limbs," He says, very quietly. "It looks good,"

Scout isn't sure what he's looking form. There is a vaguely human shape that's stopping him from breathing. It actually exists. It's actually real. That doesn't seem right.

Medic hasn't even met his eyes yet, so caught by whatever this is. Clearly, it's becoming hard for him to separate his own feelings on the matter now they're looking at it. He refers to a book for just a second and then glances fleetingly at Scout. "You're further along than I anticipated. Welcome to your second trimester,"

Scout blinks. He puts another cigarette between his lips. He needs one. He can feel every cell in his body begging for the release of one. "What does that mean?"

Medic waves a hand to him. It's more complicated than smoking now, anyway. "To you? Not much," Scout watches him think of a way to explain it. Scout always likes being the youngest, and not having to know this, and not having to hear about it. It's ladystuff, it's irrelevant.

He wishes he'd paid better attention in biology.

"We use stages to determine where you're at. Much like a calendar,"

Scout narrows his eyes. "Okay." He says. "What does that mean to me?"

"Morning sickness should have cleared up," He says, curtly. He pulls away from Scout for a moment. He blinks and Scout misses his eyes. "You should have more energy. Decreased need for urination. Increased appetite." He turns away from the page. "No cause for alarm,"

Really, he should have seen this coming. Maybe, in the distant future, the attention he was craving, some of that honest love, will be his. But Scout has this nasty suspicion that every conversation he has for the next -however long- will be about this baby, and not him at all. For Christ's sake, Medic hasn't even noticed the unlit cigarette yet.

Medic leans over, and lets the whirring of the great machine die into nothing. Off in the distance, generators hum, but for just a second, they are both silent, caught staring at eachother, and it says more than vocal chords can, even when they're resonating together. Goddamn, Medic's heartbeat sounds like 'say yes'.

What the hell is Scout supposed to say?

He goes to stagger back to his empty bed, and consider the crisis he has found himself in the middle of. Ma was always a good woman for a crisis, but Scout isn't even good. He leans heavy on the wall out on the overhang and smokes under the stars, hoping that the wing will tear through the wood and he'll land on an ocean of nails, so that he doesn't have to make any difficult decisions.

He feels a blanket being draped around him, and the arms around his shoulders are fond and friendly. "It appears we meet like this far too often," Spy says, affectionately. "What 'as you suffering?"

Scout leans against him and sighs. His stomach feels like a washing-machine. He doesn't realise that his lies are political statements. "Am I a slut?"

The question hangs from Scot's heart with worry and honesty. Spy gives it consideration. He cares.

Hooking an arm around Scout. Spy shrugs. "Whatever you 'are, cheri," he says, "Tonight, you belong to me."


	5. V

It rained last night.

These are things Scout knows. It rained last night. Later in the day, there's going to be a storm. Someone in the kitchen is frying food. It is light outside and the ground is heavy with it's own smell. Light falls fast, and yesterday is in the part.

He wakes in his clothes. In his bed. With a start at the confusion.

And he's smiling at something Spy will say, or maybe it's something he already said, but the man is gone, and there is no friendly drop of his memory in the room. For the first time in a while, actually, he wakes alone.

Scout makes his way down to the mess hall in search of company, and of breakfast. He has his shirt and his socks, and as far as he can tell: the service of anybody he'll ask. The conversation is pretty jolly considering they're fighting an uphill battle. Outside of combat, it does well to forget shortcomings and failures. Soldier always says that they achieve nothing in doing so.

Engineer is cooking this morning. A good thing, too, because if anybody can fry food, it's the man from Texas. He executes every command with ease and a smile, and Scout really does admire him, and value him as a teammate, but he's not going to say that. Hell, he doesn't even know if he can –it feels like his larynx is rusted over and when he goes to say 'good morning' to everybody this odd little noise comes out.

Scout finds himself a can of something in the back of the fridge. He's tired, and not even in the good way. Not even in the way one can rest on peace, or happiness. Across the table, Medic looks very hale and hearty, damn him, despite his late night. There are a few absentees. Sniper is likely smoking, or even just eating elsewhere. The man does most things alone. Well, Spy could literally be anywhere.

A good thing, too. Scout doesn't think he could face them right now.

He extends a personal silence to all of them, and finishes his own drink quickly. Not that Scout would be rude, Ma raised him better than that, thanks a lot. He gives out a few gestures when absolutely necessary, but otherwise stares hard at the cheap table and thinks about nothing, really, really hard.

"We have some leftover bacon and eggs," Engineer is the first to offer. It sure is nice, but the silence was nicer. Thing is, Scout is actually hungry. He missed it. He missed tasting, and waking up and being able to enjoy the morning.

"'m fine," He mumbles, and waves a hand again, unwilling to commit to anything he isn't bound to by law.

Medic's gaze on him is like slander. It burns through every door and melts his implacable composure and grim sarcasm down to it's base component: fear. The others are looking at him, too, but Scout has slept poorly, and he doesn't give a damn what they think anymore.

Heavy raises a hand to interject, almost gracefully, and it just looks dissonant, to Scout. "Little man needs energy. Run faster and capture intelligence," Seeing as they are one halves of the same force, he turns to Medic as if searching for support, and bound by his loyalties, Medic nods and takes a drink.

"It would do you good," He says, very simply. What a safe way of saying it. And sure, Scout is grateful for the confidentiality, and the level of respect he's been given, but part of him despises it: the overly-auspicious 'herr scout's as they pass in the hallway, or on the field.

Whatever Scout is said is cut short when the chair next to him is filled. He can smell sharp sweet tobacco and the kind of cynicism that begs to be proven wrong, even implicitly. An ally who carries not a sickle or even a knife. Spy enters the fray so damn smoothly, with nothing but a cigarette tin and a smile. It is reserved for Scout alone.

He says, "Gentlemen," with a nod. There has to be more to it, Scout swears, beneath this constantly, incontestable certainty-of-self, this ease of love and remorselessness. Spy is kind of cold like that: he doesn't mind hurting who he needs to. That has to come from somewhere. Scout has never taken out his heart and squeezed it for Spy, though, so he doesn't expect the same in return.

He remembers waking alone, and feels a lot less sympathetic for Spy.

He pats the table with his palm and rises. "I'm done," And without another word, he goes.

When Spy finds him, not ten minutes later, sitting on the steps out back and flicking his lighter on-and-off, miserably, he doesn't say anything at all. Not at first. He sits next to the boy and reaches into his jacket. Pulls out papers, and a small bag of tobacco. The smile is small, but says everything Scout could possibly want to know. This is different, and he doesn't know what to call it.

"Would you like to tell me what is troubling you, ami?" He hands the boy a tightly-rolled cigarette and places it between Scout's lips,, the ones he knows too well, the ones that he dreams of, no doubt.

Scout kicks the dirt and draws on the fag. He bares with teeth a little when he speaks around it. "Nope,"

It doesn't phase Spy in the slightest. He nods, considering something, and then stares out ahead into the wastelands. The ground shimmers, air dancing with heat and humidity. It's too hot for contact, for skin-on-skin out here, but the look in Spy's eyes betray prior intentions. "Do you know 'ow to roll a cigarette?"

Scout laughs a sharp, cruel laugh. "Put it this way." He says. "I ain't ever even bought myself a pack." They both know exactly what that means. The sentiment is almost as stifling as the heat, but Scout knows he'll have to do better than that to get Spy gone.

"Would you like to learn?"

"Sure,"

Their eyes meet for ten seconds. It's not love or lust but something different from both. Without talking, or fucking, Scout is actually pretty content to sit and listen to the way Spy's breathing sounds jagged and edgy, like the crackle of a record player, the man is music, many multitudes in one song and dance. But Scout doesn't need him.

When ten minutes is up, Spy still doesn't know what's troubling Scout, but they have fourteen cigarettes to divide between them, and there's a smile on Scout's face that wasn't there before.

Scout says, "Thanks," as he leaves. But he never says for what.

-

The storm comes at an inopportune moment. The first strike of thunder crackles through the ammoniac sky as Scout takes another shot with the rifle. The air is tight and acidic. The day's victory was correlated to it's length, and to Scout's own exhaustion. He held his breath for most of the fighting, underwater, under something.

He keeps waiting to snap out of it, but things aren't that simple.

And storms don't bother Scout a bit. He isn't scared of the thunder of the lightning. They're too tangible. What Scout fears most, and wants to destroy most isn't the helpless skin of his wrists, or lying the the streak of white-hot that cracks the sky. No, it's deeper, and much harder to get at.

The rain starts ten minutes after the storm. It comes blindingly heavy and Scout is blindsided by it. The water is warm and tastes like a betrayal but he trusts it anyway, because he wants it to wash away everything. He wants last night to go. He wants to be rid of all of these misinterpreted smiles, and glances and touches. Ma wasn't speaking plainly, but in metaphor, and now there's not a thing the rain can do for him.

It gets cold in a flash, and the wind picks up to tear through him like a tornado through a small town. The cans on the fence don't stand a chance, and he's pretty far from the barracks.

And, at first, he starts jogging back, but he's tired and so he tries to light a cigarette, but they're damp through by the time his frozen fingers can grasp even one. He walks without any conviction at all, towards the speck on the dusty, soaked horizon.

And it just gets colder. The corner turns, and it's another mile. Scout wants to go back to his first week here. And how everything was thrilling and simple. How Medic was a scary, humourless foreigner and how Sniper was odd and alarming and Spy-...well, to be frank, Spy is still an arrogant asshole, but the good kind. And they all hated him, all of them, even though he didn't speak ten words of french, or german or russian.

Out in the distance, he sees a figure waving, and right away, he recognises the silhouette. Stark against the sickly, yellow sodium clouds and long. Not skinny but lean, and yet tough, similar to the thin limbs on threes. Well, the hat is a giveaway, too.

For the largest part, he looks pretty dry, and Scout would be pretty envious if he wasn't so damn cold. He doesn't bother to hurry towards sniper, but takes his damn time, because he'll hang before he admits he needs this, in a way. They're both as stubborn as eachother.

By the time Sniper reaches him, the rain has actually eased up a little. But the storm continues. He gives Scout an apprehensive look.

"Bloody idiot." he says, quietly. "You'll catch your death out here."

Scout stops in his tracks and glares up at the man. He can't think of anything clever of funny to say, and he's damn tried, so her musters is blackest look and just says, "Well, I ain't dead."

He walks very slowly with Sniper, and notices how their steps synchronise. That's new, he thinks. And kind of sweet, if Sniper didn't have the legs of a damn gazelle and walked at the pace most people jog. "C'mon," Sniper says, "Get in before you freeze,"

Even if it's childish, Scout exhales sharply and narrows his eyes. "If I'm such a 'bloody idiot', why'd you wanna help me?"

And, wouldn't you now, Sniper just laughs right at him. He makes no effort to even cover it up, and gives Scout this smile that's bordering on charmed, with amusement in there too. Whatever that means, he'll just have to live with it. Their steps are still locked in time with one another.

"You'll die of hypothermia before you die of stubbornness, kid," He knows that Scout hates being called that, but it's a sport to the both of them. Spy called it 'jouant comme des enfants', or, to the rest of the team, playing as children. "Lucky I found you when I did,"

"Hmm. Yeah," Scout rolls his eyes, "Real damn lucky. Y'know, you're-"

He stops dead in the middle of talking and looks down. He hadn't even noticed they had been holding hand until now, and he swallows, quickly, feeling the saliva go down and the temperature in his face go up. "What's this?"

Sniper is looking straight ahead. "I thought you were doing that,"

Scout shrugs. "No, I thought you were doing that," But he doesn't take his hand away. Not that he'd breathe a word of it to Sniper, but he likes it. There's an assurance and a safety to it. When it feels like Sniper is going to pull away, Scout holds in his a particularly violent shiver and tries to look nonchalant. "Well, we're sleeping together, so whatever,"

It doesn't sound like he intended it to. The try to forgo the embarrassment, he sticks out a foot and trips Sniper a little. The glare he receives is wonderful, and he makes an elaborate pantomime of innocence. Palms out. "Sorry, baby, my foot slipped."

Their arms swing a little between them. It's nice. Sniper laughs. "If I bend over to tie your lace, will it slip all the way up my ass?"

Scout makes a face. He waves his other hand vaguely. "Man, you have no social skills." They laugh, but Scout isn't done playing. "You got a problem,"

The dynamic is exercised some more. They might not be the same age or nationality, or even friends of a traditional definition, but at least Sniper doesn't mind a little name-calling. "I have a problem?" Sniper laughs it off. He's got that look in his smile, the one that means he's really enjoying himself. "You swear more than you use actual words,"

Scout holds up a hand with a suddenly serious face. "Jarate." He says. "That's all I'm gonna say,"

Sniper shrugs. He doesn't really mind in the same way that Scout doesn't really mean it. The boy is shivering like a bitch, and it's kinda cute, in a strange way. "You'd have frozen to death a month ago,"

"What?" Scout frowns.

He's confused. It's hard to explain without sounding impolite. "You've put on a little weight since then," He explains, slowly. "You look good,"

Maybe that's a compliment. All Scout is hearing is alarm bells singing to high heaven. It's so easy to forget just how much Sniper sees of him, and it's not like he'd be any less conspicuous by screwing with a shirt on. Another month or so, and even that won't make a difference.

So Scout just says. "Oh,"

He keeps his composure well enough, but Scout is freezing, and it's gotten to the point where he can't feel his skin. Just his skeleton, and he doesn't think bones have nerves in, so something is definitely wrong. Sniper doesn't say a word, but takes off the jacket he's wearing and drapes it around Scout's shoulders.

"I don't owe you nothin'." He grumbles, pulling it around his body. Sniper shrugs.

"I never said you owed me anything," His words are simple. That look on his face is not.

Scout shrugs right back at him. The rain continues, only broken by the fierceness of the storm. It's still warm out, though. "Fine," He mumbles.

Sniper's looking straight ahead once more. "Fine,"

What does that word even mean? Good? Bad? What's fine about anything? Isn't the rain terrible, or fantastic, or even cold? What the hell is fine about any of it? The word doesn't make sense, because sniper will say holding hands is fine, and fucking with the lights off is fine, and bearing souls is fine and it doesn't mean a thing to Scout. It's not going to be fine when he has to explain to Sniper that he's pregnant. That they're in this together,

So he says, "Okay."

It's not much better.

-

Scout doesn't want to hold hands with Medic.

He'd like a fuck is all. Just one, after dinner, because they're still 'friends'. But when he peeks his head around the infirmary door, he finds the man locked in a very serious-looking chess game with Heavy. Scout doesn't like chess. He doesn't know how to play chess.

Medic looks up. They catch eyes for two seconds.

Those two seconds speak of a complete conflict. Of Medic's own happiness, of sing-songing german over the telephone, and wandering about in this disgustingly gleeful trance while Scout shoots out in the storm, miserable, tired, telling everybody he's 'fine'.

Those two seconds say all he needs to know. He decides to invite another 'friend' over.

-

Sniper hears the crickets of the early evening lurking about outside of Scout's window. They wait like customers, bathed in evening sunset like a red light, telling them all that Scout is armed. Sniper usually tries his luck; and he usually gets past, no questions asked, no speaking allowed. Not on nights like this, when storms have passed and he steps into the darkness and soft jazz.

And he knows he shouldn't be there. It's late, and he should be sleeping, he should be working. There is no comfort in knowing he means well. Every time he thinks he has beaten this habit, and that he can resist the boy, the world turns again.

Scout smiles at him like slander, so used to being promised anything, the world, every single multitude, and like skips on a record player, the boy shakes his head and laughs.. He doesn't care. He doesn't want the world, or the 'good intent' and reputation of some man.

He just wants.

It's dark and he can laughter and something else. He can smell cigarette smoke and wine and Sniper knows his wines, even if he only buys from Australian vineyards and never, ever French ones. Maybe he's presuming a little too much, but Scout isn't the kind of boy that decides to drink wine: he's the kind that gets convinced.

He knocks on the door.

The initial reaction is surprise. Then, some laughter, completely unguarded. He knows for certain that it's Scout, and in a second, the door swings open and the boy curves against the doorframe. His eyes are swimming, and the same colour as the wine staining his lips. His shirt is off. His feet are bare and his hair is a mess. There's also a man in his bed.

Sniper stands back and looks at the floor. "Oh," He mumbles. "I'll –I'll come back la-"

Scout never sounds like he does when he grinds out a "No." And grabs Sniper, falling forward slightly and leaning heavy on Sniper's front. He thinks about peeling the boy off of him and leaving, because he doesn't want Scout like this. He's drunk. Even if it doesn't take much to get him that way, it's still slightly sad and pitiful.

The boy's kisses are sloppy and indecisive. His palms are shoving up and down and he tries to hook a leg around Sniper. It's not entirely unpleasant, but kind of tragic. And without even thinking he has his hand on the boy's back and he's leaning into it, because -damn it all, he's weak and he'll have this on any terms.

A quiet voice in the other room tears them apart. Scout turns his head sluggishly and nods. He grabs Sniper by the shirt and staggers back into the room. The door slams shut and inside is a vision of heaven. Or hell.

Or maybe a little of both.

There are wine bottles and empty glasses and fast jazz and the man in the bed is satiated and smoking. He lifts his head when the door shuts and Sniper is staring into Spy's bare face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Scout steals the words and swallows them, the kiss so deep and all-at-once that he swears the boy is breathing into his lungs.

He can taste the grape, the sunset –the damn country and time of day the wine was made, and it's sharp and tart and nice. Or, it would be, if it wasn't so full-on. Sniper has to pull him off for air, and it's only then that he gets a good look at the boy, dazed and drunk and so small. He looks like a bleached gargoyle, leering repeatedly, making these odd little noises that could be need or pain or-

It's awkward. Especially as Spy is just lying there, watching the boy with these lazy and treacherous eyes, like he owns the boy, like he'd break Scout's legs to have him bend to his will. He doesn't understand where they stand. Friends don't do this. They don't hold hands and fuck and they don't blush when they look at eachother or even talk the way they do. Sex in the shower? Swapping nightmares? Saying things that nobody else knows? They are not friends anymore, and Sniper knows he's just a cold boy and he's full of shit, but it hits him once more as Scout lunges for him, pulling him onto the floor and clawing at his neck.

Sniper says, "I don't want-"

But Scout doesn't hear him. He starts fumbling at his shirt buttons, and it's ridiculous, because the boy's coordination is so gone he ends up pawing at them uselessly, grinding half-hard against Sniper, desperate for something –anything at all.

Jesus, these noises he's making are obscene, and Spy is right fucking there –he's just watching, so casually, and there's a lot of latent jealousy there because Spy is the one who got the boy drinking, and has probably already enjoyed himself plenty. Sniper would complain about getting sloppy seconds but he can't right now.

The boy is mumbling incoherently against the side of his face, grinding into Sniper's hips desperately, unable to form clear thoughts or make fluid motions. He feels jerky and uncomfortable. This is what everybody else sees. This is him living up to the names they give him. He isn't usually like this. He isn't usually so desperate.

Somebody Is knocking on the door. Whoever it is will certainly be ignored.

"For God's sake," The boy whines, "Fuck me –Jesus Christ, I want-" He holds up a shaky hand when sniper goes to kiss him properly, to make this moment worth something. It's like a performance, and all the scene lacks is lights. "No, I don't want-" Scout hiccups. He looks right through sniper when he talks. "I don't want that. If you do that…if we kiss right now-" He says. "I'm gonna feel like shit tomorrow,"

The room is spinning when Scout smiles, "I don't wan' lose you as my friend," The knocking is becoming more errant and there is mumbling that follows with it.

Renewed bitterness, he pins Scout to the ground and stares him right in the eyes. They kiss, and it's messy and brief and says everything he's too afraid to. When they tear apart Scout's heartbeat sounds like his last name and the boy had been fought and conquered. Somebody is pounding on the damn door with raw force, and shouting. It's drowned out by the music and the breathing and the boy

"I will never be your friend," He hisses. "Never."

The noise Scout makes is inhuman and wild. His nails make patters into Sniper's back like he's carving his name there and he grins manically. They rut together awkwardly as Scout struggles with the buttons on Sniper's shirt, and Spy is content just to watch. There's no jealous there.

The knocking ceases and the handle clicks. The party joining them is red in the face. But that rage falls right off of Medic's face when he asses, in seconds, in frames, what he's seeing and he compares it to what he was hearing. There's a hunger in the air, and it smells like sweat and smoking and sin. All of them looking on at the desperate boy, his bareback glistening in the night, the skin that makes them all sick in the night.

Scout pauses briefly and smiles to Medic with a grin so large it looks like it might fall off of his face. "You wanna join us, Doc?"

Medic looks like he might actually lose it. He swallows slowly and bites his lip before he speaks. "I would like you to climb off Herr Sniper, schatzchen." The man has enough gravitas that Sniper scoots off of the boy awkwardly. He doesn't want to get between anybody, but when Scout has been between all of them, it becomes rather difficult. Dazed, the boy stands shakily and goes to the dresser.

Medic follows him, struggling to keep his voice so smooth and level. His arms are bent at the elbows and his teeth are ground together.

Spy watches him, still sprawled out lazily in the boy's sheets. He shakes his head and smiles. "Let the boy enjoy himself, Docteur, it does no 'arm,"

Medic turns on him instantly. "You have n-" he rights himself, but barely. "You know nothing." And then he turns around and points a nasty finger at Sniper. "And you both should know better than this. We all should!"

When he turns back around, Scout is slumped against the dresser with a freshly-lit rolled cigarette. The look of utter contentment on his face along with his wine-stained lips turn on something in Medic that Sniper can't say he's seen before. Usually, the man will do anything to keep his grimly sarcastic, implacable composure. It remains in tatters at the hands of this boy –this child.

He snatches the cigarette out of Scout's mouth and pulls him to standing. Not gently, either. "How many times must I tell you about this?!"

Sniper's love is carried by his feet, and he's standing in a second. He puts a hand on Medic's back and talks in a quiet voice. "The boy's had enough now, eh? Just leave him be."

Medic doesn't remove his vicelike grip on the boy's shoulder, but turns around and laughs a sharp, cold laugh.

"Yes, indeed. Mein junge has had quite enough." He sounds terrifying like this. This is clearly something different to Medic than perhaps it should be. It must be deep and emotional because he's bleeding all of these crippled excuses why Scout is innocent, and his other lovers are devils, wanting to drown him in lakes filled with sin and darkness.

"How much has he been drinking?" Medic realises he's addressing the wrong man. He looks down at Spy, who, by his own heel, cares not for any of this. His own pleasures are simple, and whatever he feels, it doesn't coincide with another man's pleasure. Medic draws his lines closer, and in thicker ink. "How much has he had?!" The desperation in the question is odd.

Spy waves a hand. "What does it matter? 'e will 'ave recovered by tomorrow afternoon."

Medic turns on him again. He grabs Scout and glares at him. Makes a decision, and opens his mouth. "It matters-" The sound goes back into this throat. He sounds hoarse when he speaks.

"It matters because Scout is pregnant."

-

When Scout wakes, he feels as if he has been doing the breast-stroke face-down in the Hudson all night. His room is messy, and he vaguely remembers empty bottles. He vaguely remembers jazz, and Spy, and the taste of France in a glass: he has never tried wine before. From the looks of things, he doesn't want to try it again.

Head splitting, insides groaning at him, Scout dresses slowly and tries to recall the evening. Something important is nagging just below the surface of his conscious mind, and he keeps digging for it. He remembers Sniper's shirt buttons, and how resistant they were. Remembers Spy's cigarettes on the dresser, the knocking at the door.

He is struck by the memory of Medic's word. And how he told them. All of them. Oh Christ, crucified Christ, he's going to die alone because Medic can't keep things to himself, because Medic can't leave him alone for one goddamn night-

He needs to find the both of them.

Scout pulls on his shirt in a hurry, but forgoes shoes, and staggers down to the mess hall. There's a piercing in his skull and his feet can't remember terra firma, but either way, he continues, hand against the wall, mouth dry, eyes squinting. He makes it to the doorway and peers in, finding it empty of the ones he needs the most. The ones whom he seeks.

Scout turns on himself and heads up a flight of stairs, towards the overhang. He can already smell cigarette and mistakes and apologies stuffed down shirts and throats. He keeps thinking that maybe they'll be happy, that they'll promise him attention and endless love. That they'll think they have to stay with him, and it'll be like a big gay postcard: Sniper can chop wood for the fire and Spy can rub his feet when they're sore and everything will be-

Only, it won't.

He spots Sniper leaning out, and goes up the last three steps with his heart very much on the back of his hand. He's loud climbing the stairs, though, and Sniper turns, face open to suggestion. It closes immediately when he sees Scout, and he discard the cigarette, turns and walks. Scout knows it better than anyone that when Sniper's face goes closed like that, there's no way to open him back up again.

Scout hurries after him, tripping and feeling altogether awful. "Hey!" He's shouting, but apparently, his words fall on deaf ears. "Hey, don't you ignore me!" He manages to get close enough to take Sniper's arm, and the older man shakes him off with such fury.

"Get offa me!" He never sounds this anger. Not to Scout. Not in earnest. The boy shrinks back in fear, his indignance turning to dismay. His red face blanching. When he opens his mouth to speak, he is spoken over. "I don't want to hear it."

Sniper turns and walks, but Scout follows him. He's terrified about this. He doesn't want to lose Sniper. For whatever reason, even if he doesn't ever say it, this matters too much. "Please," Scout whimpers. He despises how pathetic he sounds. "Let me explain."

Sniper denies him the right to speak once more. "There's nothing to explain," And then, he gets nasty. He lets Scout stand there, emotionally naked while he pours acid onto the boy's skin. "This is not my problem."

Scout flares up. "Yes, it fuckin' is!" He's incredibly loud, and they're attracting some attention from the others. "You don't get to fuck me and walk away like that!" . He takes a sharp breath. "It might not be just yours, but that don't change nothin'."

Sniper gives him a mirthless little laugh and waves a hand. "Well, just give me a rough idea. Is there anybody here you haven't fucked?"

Scout slaps him hard and narrows his eyes. His breathing is wrought with shame and laboured. His body is curved like a bow and his fists are tight. Sniper looks like he might fight back, but restrains himself.

"You may not have to experience the shit I'm gonna go through," He hisses. "But you loved fuckin' me, an' that makes it your problem too, asshole."

Sniper looks absolutely disgusted. The hatred in his face doesn't last. He gives it form in words. "You stay away from me," He orders. "I swear to God, I will tie you to the fence myself—"

In less than ten words, Scout recoils like he's been shot.

He feels the words deeper than any bullet and his face goes completely white, drained of everything but complete, unmitigated shock. His mouth falls open and he curls in on himself like a wounded animal. Sniper might well have cut him open and let him bleed out all of his crippled 'I love yous' and it would hurt him less. And with the look he's giving Scout, it sundered the boy twice. He might just cry.

Scout shuts his mouth and flinches like he's gonna slug Sniper, but changes his mind. He turns right around and marches off, because the heat in his body is choking him, and he'll be damned if he lets Sniper see him cry, or get the best of him.

The moment Sniper sees his back, he realises the injury he's done.

He peruses the boy with great tenacity. "Scout," He calls for him. Starts to jog down the corridor because the boy is feeling from him. He passes other on the way, and he's getting a look from Heavy that warns him. They might not like Scout all that much, but they sure as shit look after him, and if Sniper has made him cry, he will most certainly pay. "Dammnit Scout, I didn't mean-"

The boy is being consoled by Medic, and Sniper skid to a halt, unwilling to go any further. The boy wipes at his eyes furiously and turns around. He isn't done with Sniper. Not yet.

Sniper holds up his palms and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," He says, "I don't want you to think-"

The boy flinches, and he's too quick for Sniper. His nose might be broken, and Scout is standing there like a sponge for judgement, his hands made into fists, his eyes blazing. His breathing is tortured. His face is pained as more tears threaten to appear.

"You-…" Scout's voice is cracked and broken. He grabs Sniper's collar and shakes him fiercely. "You're a hypocrite," he hisses. He shakes harder. He shouts louder. "You're nasty -you're sick." Scout is red in the face and tears are painting his cheeks. "You're a liar! You're an asshole!"

He's shaking hard and screaming. His voice is diminished to static but he keeps on. "I trusted you! I trusted you an' you betrayed me!" The boy screws his eyes shut. "You're an asshole!"

He throws another punch. "You're a nasty piece of shit!" Scout goes to punch him again, and Sniper takes a hold of his wrists ad hold them tight in the space between them.

"Scout-" He says, quietly. Scout spits at him, and thrashes wildly.

"Get off of me!" He tugs violently and starts to shriek again. "Get offa me! You're hurtin' me!" The boy turns his head higher and announces to the rest of them. "He's hurtin' me!"

Medic steps between them. He pries Sniper off and goes to the boy, trying to calm him down. The boy is livid. His entire body is wracked by him just breathing, and his breaths come in tight and fast. He tries to gulp down air, and when Medic pus an arm round him, he shoves it off and wails. "You calm down!"

Scout is exhausted from being alive. He tries to breathe, and goes limp against Medic, who looks around at the others for some kind of help. Heavy collects Scout up and carries him, at Medic's request. The last look Sniper gets of the boy, he's pale and crying and unable to use the air in the room to stay alive.

As the other mercenaries leave, one by one, none of them look Sniper in the eye.


	6. VI

For every three months spent in Teufort, at least a month is spent in elsewhere. RED or BLU, nobody enjoys moving day.

There's little to no combat on these days. And, unless the fighting is inside of the respawn zone, is pointless and dangerous. Histories of fallen mercenaries like old wives tales choke the fight out of everybody on a day like that.

It's not unpopular because of that. It's the journey. They can't be directly dropped at the barracks, because the locations are supposed to be 'confidential'. With ambiguous instructions and reliance mainly on the team's navigational skills, both teams have to set across deserts, mountains and snowstorms.

A week in advance, Engineer opens the file at the table, direct from administration. Those present are not enthusiastic, but wary. It always goes like this, and it feels like the first time every time. No recollection of the journeys, even if they are to the same front: taller buildings and faster trains and thicker snow and sharper sand but the same sad bodies dulling under the circumstances.

Everybody is carefully not saying anything about the incident in the hallway. Sniper is absent. Spy is leaning against a door, smoking. He isn't looking at Scout like he used to. He thinks about the saddest book he ever read, and how it always makes him cry, despite his best intentions. A statue is crying too, and well he may.

"Well, folks," Engineer gives the room a quick sweep with his eyes and tries a smile. However disheartened he is, it doesn't show on his face. "It isn't going to be warm,"

Most of the team can deal with the cold. They all have to, but Scout doesn't suffer in silence at all, and the cold weather always makes Sniper grumpy. He'll be in a dark mood when somebody informs him. That's not going to be Scout.

"So, we have ourselves a week left here," Engineer closes the file and leaves it in the middle of the table, lest any of them doubt his words, or simply wish to see for themselves. Scout thinks it must be a control thing: because Medic always does it, and so does Soldier. In Scout's mind, bad news is always worse in writing. "We'll be headin' to Coldfront by train,"

There are nods, and a series of disapproving grunts. Scout lets out a breath of annoyance and scrubs his face. "I hate the cold," He grumbles.

Demo doesn't mind, even a little. Like Heavy, he's used to the snow and the rain. he says, "You won't mind it so much when you're there, lad,"

Despite the fact that Scout hates being called 'lad' or 'kid' or anything that makes him out to be the team's mascot, he sucks it up. "Well, whatever. It always snows in Ireland,"

The look he gets shot has the intention of being playful with something much more grim beneath, "Scotland."

Scout shrugs. "Same thing," And before he can even be called up on the comment, he flops childishly out of the seat, taking his bowl of cereal with him.

Now, Scout has never actually been overly fond of breakfast as a meal, but this is the second heaped bowl of cornflakes he's had this morning. For the first time in a very long time, he feels actually hungry. Medic doesn't say a damn word, because there are worse things to snack on than cornflakes.

He also doesn't say anything because Scout has been a 'guter junge' and cut down on his cigarettes. Not cold turkey, because damn, Doc, he's only human. Though, Scout is still allowed a smoke here and there, or to roll cigarettes. It calms him immensely, and shuts him up, which is a neat trick, all things considered.

It's been a fortnight since the incident in the hallway. Most of the team are none the wiser to the origin of the argument. Not one of them have teased Scout about being reduced to tears, and while he appreciates it, he's also left silently berating himself over it. He passes Spy sometimes, and the man smiles at him like nothing has ever happened. Scout isn't brave enough to ask or mention anything.

As for Sniper...well, he doesn't even come to meals anymore. If he sees Scout there he turns tail completely. He won't smoke out on the overhang, either, even when the coast is clear. Hell, sniper won't even breathe the same air as the boy so much as talk to him. The last time they even caught eyes was in the locker room. Scout has a towel slung loosely around his growing waist and went to pry open his locker when he felt the heat of eyes on him. And Sniper was staring at him. Looking right through him.

Scout feels more and more self-conscious as the days go by. So much so that he's almost glad they're going to Coldfront, and not somewhere hot so he can bundle on layers and not be found suspicious. The last thing he wants is to be shirtless and sweaty. Everyday, Medic tells him that nobody has noticed, and that it's only obvious to Scout because he knows his own body so well.

The thing is, Scout despises Medic for loving his body when even he can't.

Of course they know. It doesn't help that the entire team shower together and change together, and it doesn't help that there's a definite swell that obscures his vision of his toes when he looks down, or that remains distended even when he's lying down. It doesn't help that it throws his balance off, or slows him down when he runs. And he's not even halfway there yet.

But everytime Scout wants to call it quits, something stops him. Last night, he felt something incredibly odd. It felt like popcorn popping inside of him, and it was so unexpected and alarming he went straight down to the infirmary and demanded to know if he were dying.

And Medic had smiled wide like he did that night and said everything was okay. That it was just the baby moving.

Scout is weak. He leaves the finished bowl on his dresser and goes out to the overhang, which is blissfully empty. Cuts his eyes side-to-side conspiratorially before he lights a cigarette. The feel of the smoke warming his lungs is so undeniably good that he whimpers in delight and goes a little limp against the wall. When he finishes the cigarette, he stubs it out and turns to go back inside.

And collides with Sniper.

As the smaller of the two, Scout goes toppling to the floor, and for a second freezes from the shock. He staggers up and speaks fast, before Sniper can leave. He's cornered now.

"We're moving to the base at Coldfront," He says, impossibly quickly, and swallows. "In case…" Scout's voice never sounded so nervous. "In case you didn't hear,"

Sniper looks at the wall when he talks. "Okay," He mumbles, and goes to move past Scout, who sticks his arm out. It does no good, and Sniper shakes it off and continues through, implacable and untouchable. Scout feels like a fool for trying. For caring at all, actually.

Feeling particularly desperate, he jams his fists into his pockets and calls to the older man. "This ain't gonna go away no matter how hard you ignore it, y'know," Sniper doesn't turn around, but Scout keeps on anyway, because he has to try. He isn't ready to roll over just yet. "Believe me, I don't wanna be here anymore than you do. An' I ain't asking you to gotta care or nothin',"

So Scout kicks at the floor. Sniper's cigarette is frozen in his hand on the journey to his lips. He's still showing Scout his back, but he is listening. When he talks again, he sounds even worse.

"I-" Damn, this is difficult. "I really did like you, man. Like a lot," Nervous, he's stammering. "An' I'm not sayin' you gotta be happy about this, but I wish you'd stop pretendin' I don't exist. It ain't fair-"

Sniper turns slightly, and his profile is unmistakable against the sunrise. It appears to rise in the age and wonder of his face and Scout wants to scratch the future into his back so he can be everything the older man lives for. But Sniper just laughs at him.

"Kid, life ain't fair. What's your basis for comparison?"

And Scout is totally ready to come back with something witty or scathing, or even just true that will make Sniper snap out of this, and turn around and smile like it's all a big joke and say that he loves Scout and everything will be okay and he's going to stay.

But what Sniper has said is true, and Scout walks away very stung and feeling very much alone. Sniper doesn't owe him anything. Hell, the world doesn't owe him anything.

It was here first, after all.

-

Well, apparently, both teams received the news, because the fights suddenly lack the vigour and hatred of before. Tactics are cleaner and blows are fleeting and somehow every round fired becomes less personal. Scout does a fine job of steering clear of both the enemy Medic and the enemy Scout, not just because he values his hands and his pride, but because he now has a responsibility to protect.

It's September now, and the usual reverent heat of Teufort has cooled down to something temperate and lovely, and Scout is a little bitter about leaving now, all things considered. The summer was so hot here, he could have saved himself a sunburn. Ma always used to say the sun makes the mad blood stir, or something like that, and maybe if they had spent the summer in the snow, maybe he wouldn't be here now.

Scout just keeps looking back over the summer for these early warning signs. Or for anything that could have predicted him ending up here.

On his way out of BLU's base with the Intel bleeding paper on his trail, his head connects with wood and he tastes splinters on the way down. Scout essentially folds in half and fights blindly. To no avail, though, and he's left spitting blood as he hears a voice not dissimilar to his own, rich with laughter, "Thanks for the co-operation, tons o' fun,"

And usually, Scout sucks it up, because he's used to being made fun of. But the jab is so personal and alarming that he feels the heat rising in his face and body, and he leaps on the boy getting away, throwing them both onto the dirt, fixing his hands around the boy's throat and shaking violently.

The Intelligence is belching paper all over them and obscuring the colours they fight so hard for, but Scout's face and blood is more strident than his shirt and he is squeezing hard despite the BLU's scratching at any exposed skin and kicking up violently. And not that Scout could give a damn about the intelligence anymore, he's too proud to let this one go.

A hard knee to the stomach winds him, though, and Scout curls in, letting go instinctively. He tries to suck in air, but can't, and in a second the BLU is beating the side of his face hard with the butt of a pistol.

A shot rings out from somewhere, upstairs.

It grazes Scout's arm and he lets out a whimper. The BLU goes very stiff for a second, and there's something wet all over Scout's shirt. His enemy's eyes are wide open, and his lips are slightly parted in unfinished shock. Black blood paints his forehead and an exit wound marks him as dead. It scares Scout so damn much that he pries the body off of him and scuffles a few metres away in the first, feeling very sick.

He heaves a little and looks up. But Sniper is gone as quickly as he came.

The BLU Scout is now on his back, the Intel trapped beneath his body. And Scout knows he's going to have to roll the stiffening corpse over and pry the papers out from the body. With haste in mind, he shuffles over and turns the enemy onto his front. There's a sharp pain in Scout's stomach, but he ignores it for now, trapped in the knowledge that whatever he faces out on the field, respawn has the capacity to fix it.

Damn the Medic. Damn it all.

-

Scout has never been to Coldfront before. All he knows is that it's cold. He's fought in the snow before, and doesn't much like it: it's difficult to run in, and the cold hits him harder than most. There is another advantage that Scout realises once Medic tells him that they're going by a twelve-hour train.

Twelve hours locked in with the team. Which also means: twelve hours in which Sniper can't evade him. Scout knows that they will come to some kind of agreement, or murder eachother.

On the Friday, fighting gets called off early. Their bags have been packed the night before. Scout never knows what to bring. In the shower, Scout thinks suddenly that he's forgotten his toothbrush. Before, he could have asked one of his lovers for anything, and they would have gone crawling. Now he's hard done by to find anybody to share a bed with, just to sleep.

The soap is harder than concrete, and he can't get anything from it. Not in water this cold, and Scout is actually relieved when the water stops suddenly. He aches. The day has been long and he needs to call home or Ma will get worried. What he'd give to be any one of his brothers right now. Working in dead-end jobs, watching wives they don't like wither. Maybe Scout was meant for a life like that.

Well, he took a good look at it, turned, and ran in the opposite direction.

They dress for the occasion. Jackets and scarves and clutter from clearing out lockers. Scout dresses slowly. He'll miss Teufort, which is the closest thing any of them have to a home. Working for RED, these are the loneliest men in the world. He won't be lonely for much longer, Scout recalls, pulling his shirt down hard. It stretches across his stomach tight, and comes about an inch higher than it should do. Of course, it doesn't matter when he's fully dressed, but it's another hassle.

Medic's always saying something about him having a 'pack of blessings light on his back'. And sure, in the long run, Scout has it nice. But it's surviving the little things that's killing him.

They get driven into town. The trains windows will be blacked out to prevent them finding out where exactly they're going. So, they wait. The nine of the team standing on the platform looking all sorts of odd and lost. Scout fishes a can from his bag, and sits on the platform bench to drink it. Out here, in public, with jackets and coats, they look like a normal ensemble or people, with no business being eachother's colleges and friends. He remembers his first arrival here, and how vast and dusty and empty it was. His first christmas back home, scared of saying anything.

In the silence, they wait some more. Spy is smoking against the platform sign, covering the 'eu' in 'Teufort'. His luggage is matching and smart, a deep burgundy. He looks unconcerned by the world, and Scout wishes more than anything to join him. Fumbling into his pocket, he pulls out a rolled cigarette and puts in between his lips. The flick of the lighter only serves to alert Medic, who shoots him a disapproving glare.

So the cigarette remains unlit.

The train pulls up abut ten minutes later, and they're bundled into two carriages. With luggage stowed, there's no room at all. At least, none to lay down, and no view to look at on the journey. Scout takes a seat at the back and thinks about trying to sleep for the entire journey. Sniper made a careful point of going into the other carriage. It would be an exercise in futility to bother him now.

Scout sleeps.

-

He wakes abut three hours later feeling particularly warm. He's wrapped in Medic's coat and leant against the older man, looking very concerned by the book he's reading. Scout can see these complicated monochrome diagrams depicting things that look similar but shouldn't be. He shuts his eyes to them.

Scout sleeps.

-

He wakes in what must be very late evening. The cigarette has fallen into his lap. Medic is fast asleep, the book to rest in his lap, that one curl on his brow sagging, as if fatigued. Scout gathers that dinner must have been served half an hour or so ago from the lukewarm, vacuum-sealed shepherd's pie on the seat next to him. It's bland, but Scout is ravenously hungry. Pyro offers his mostly-untouched one with a muffled noise that could be 'here you go', or 'thistles'. It's difficult to tell.

Most of them have moved to play poker in Scout's carriage. They've piled suitcases between the narrow aisle to make a table, and sit on chairs or even the surly carriage floor. Scout's terrible at poker, but thinks he wouldn't mind watching. That is, until he realises that everybody has moved in here. Everybody. Sniper is on the far left, laughing at something Heavy has said. His eyes are visible to the world and it's so good to see him smile again.

How can he go over there if it will only serve to make Sniper miserable?

The seat next to Spy is empty, and it's also a little further down. Since Medic is asleep, he takes the opportunity and lights the cigarette, before shuffling across the carriage and sitting down. Not that he'd admit it on being asked, but Scout's back aches a little. Not a grand kind of pain, but a stiffness between the shoulders. On his arrival, Spy moves over and smiles warmly to him.

"Free from the tyranny of your keeper, I see," He remarks. Maybe that's supposed to be funny. Scout doesn't laugh. He leans on the seat in front of him and rolls his eyes.

"He ain't my keeper," Scout protests weakly.. He leans back, unable to read the game on any level, and gives Spy another quick glance. "He can't make me do nothin' I don't wanna, y'know. I jus' don't always know what's best,"

The look Spy gives him is hard to work out. "And you think your Docteur does?"

Maybe it's because of the situation Scout's in, and how Medic has been the only one who has had his back, but Scout does feel defensive. "Well, right now he does," Scout looks at Spy. Really looks at him. Drops his voice to a whisper because where they've found themselves is confusing and embarrassing and he doesn't intend to hurt Spy, even if it happens sometimes. "Things ain't the same between us anymore. They won't be again." He swallows. "I ain't askin' for your heart or your money, but we can't jus' continue like nothin's happened."

Spy is listening, but however he feels, Scout can't read him. Of course, it's Spy's job to hide and to deceive, but right now it only serves to complicate things.

Sighing, Scout continues to talk in the quietest voice he can muster. "There's a kid involved now, an' that changes things. I can't-" He sighs, with a great suffering inside of him, and leans back. He isn't looking at Spy. "I can't make you stay or anythin', but I'd like to know where we are,"

He sees a ring of smoke die in the air. Spy looks at him, completely unbiased by the squeezing of Scout's heart to him. The man acts as if he hasn't been issued an ultimatum, or the worst of curveballs. Just continues to smoke like he's hearing the sports scores. "What do you mean 'where we are', cher?"

Scout swallows on a pin-hole of a throat. His voice is diminished when he speaks. "Like, in or out. Game or not game for this,"

The noise of approval he hears makes Scout's heart jump at some kind of false hope. At the ridiculous prospect of seeing this through without going crazier than a shithouse rat. "You mean to say 'cap ou pas cap'." Spy nods. His voice becomes very quiet and solemn and he smiles at Scout with no ulterior motive or malicious intent. "I don't love you, ami,"

Scout nods. "I know. I never asked you to,"

He waves a hand. "Any money you require is yours. This is as much my fault as yours, non?" It's comforting to hear that, even in times like these. Scout nods breathlessly. "You 'ave my support." He is assured. "But it is not up to me to raise or 'ouse any child."

That seems fair. But Scout doesn't say anything. He never thought that far ahead. Hell, his four weeks will be up in a few days, and even though his decision is made, he still has to finalise keeping this kid. Spy is staring at him. "C'est bien? Cap ou pas cap?" A hand pats his affectionately.

"Uh, cap," He mumbles, dumbly. "Game,"

After three cigarettes, Scout falls asleep again. The position he's in only exacerbates the pain in his back, and Scout wakes after perhaps an hour and a half. Most of the others are asleep. Spy is passed out looking dignified enough. The only ones awake enough to play cards are heavy, and Soldier, and Engineer, who folds just as Scout awakens.

He looks in the back row to check for Medic, who is no longer there. His book, filled with diagrams and bad news, lays on his seat. Sniper is nowhere to be found, either, and Scout knows if he's going to make a move, he should make one soon, before the man can get away again, or stifle him.

It takes effort to peel himself from the seat and he turns to move the the end of the carriage. He freezes, however, when he sees through the glass separating the carriages, Medic lecturing his missing Sniper. Well, it isn't really a lecture. It's very hard to read what's going on actually. Medic looks to be reading him something, but looks up at Sniper every now and then, as if to explain. And Sniper seems to be laughing hysterically.

Whatever it is, he finds it uproariously funny and can't shut his mouth for love nor money, leaning against a chair. Scout can't see his eyes, but the reaction seems pretty clear. When he thinks Sniper is turning, Scout ducks, and slouches into the seat closest to him. One of the few, thankfully rows of seats. He stretches out across the two, tying to get comfortable.

Medic said that he wouldn't be able to sleep on his front anymore, and sleeping on his back would make the ache stiffer and put more strain on is heart. Apparently, to increase circulation, or some other bullshit medical excuse, he's supposed to sleep on his left side. Well, Is Scout is going to keep this thing, he supposes he should do what he can. There are all of these rules, though, all of these things he can't do, and he doesn't know what they are until he's broken one again. The temperature in the carriages is dropping the closer to Coldfront they get. Out of desire for warmth completely, he slings an arm around his stomach. It sure is warm, and much rounder than he'd like, but it seems to work.

That's how Medic finds him. Of course, the man is smiling serenely away like nothing ever happened. In the darkness, he fumbles, but sits, letting Scout use his lap as a pillow. Still without saying anything, he puts a hand over Scout's, so they're both resting on his stomach. The other plays with the boy's hair, and it's so-...what's the word? Whimsical.

"So you have taken my advice after all," he says, motioning to the way Scout is laying. "I had no idea you could be so obedient,"

Scout mumbles against his thigh. "I can reach my walther, you ass," He feels the laughter from the older man softly, and it's nice. Scout could fall asleep all over again, but Sniper is on his mind, and he's scared, too, about life and moving and Coldfront. On the seat behind them, there is a small rattle, and Scout frowns.

"Don't mind the birds," Medic says, quietly. Scout feels him lean around, and the rattling of what must be a cage stops. "You'll be out soon, darlings," He mumbles to them. It's silly to see such a usually solemn and professional man fawning over such small animals. It isn't the done thing.

Yawning, Scout readjusts himself. It's very hard to get comfortable. "I need to call my Ma, when we get there," He can feel the massaging of fingertips against his scalp. The noise of agreement is deep and Scout feels it pass through him.

"You may use the telephone in my office after I have made my call." He says. A pause. "Have you told your mother about the pregnancy yet-"

Scout hits him hard on the leg and hisses. "Say it a little louder, why don't you, I don't think BLU heard you," He's being entirely serious, but Medic doesn't permit him to be. He rubs small circles on Scout's stomach and laughs a little. Thesedays, he laughs more. He smiles more, even if there's less that Scout can see to be happy about. "An' no, I ain't yet,"

"My apologies," Medic mumbles. "But you will have to explain yourself to them at some point. You don't really expect to continue combat after you have reached six months or so, do you?"

Tired, Scout evades the question with a shrug. He didn't think that far ahead. He never has in his whole life. "Who are you calling, anyway?" He frowns. "I heard you talkin' German on the telephone a couple times now, Doc,"

Apparently tired, Medic yawns after him. He takes off his glasses and slips them into his top pocket before giving his eyes a rub. "Ada –my sister. She moved back to Germany after the war. She was-" There's a smile in Medic's voice, and she clearly means a lot to him. Scout hasn't heard from any of his brothers in so long. "She was the first person I told about you,"

For all of this time, Scout never thought of Medic as a real person. Like, with a history, and family. At some point, Medic fled Germany, and he's never heard a story about that. At some point, he would have lived under a nazi regime, and yet, he never breathes a word on it. Medic is a deep-down kind of good, and Scout might have never been good in his whole life, but he is Medic's.

It must be the early hours of the morning by the time Medic falls asleep again, free of glasses, the focus of the world softer in his dreams. He's warm, and comfortable and as much as Scout wants to sleep again, he finds himself unable to get back to rest. At least, no with Sniper still turned away from him. Scout wishes he could be angrier about it, but there's this horrible suspicion inside of him that he really does deserve this. Slowly, he sits up from Medic's lap and stretches a little. There isn't another soul awake on the train, and in the darkness, he staggers through the aisle. He stops when he fidns sniper, only taking up one seat on a row of two, slumped with his hat pulled over his eyes.

You know, Scout actually misses this.

He sighs and takes the seat nearest Sniper, before leaning a little. The man Is warm and his body open and Scout wants to say they are done fighting. They will be when Sniper can breathe the same air as he does. When Sniper will look at him, or kiss him, or just tell him that he isn't angry. And Scout feels like crying all over again when he hooks Sniper's arm around him, and snuggles into the man's chest. The moment Sniper wakes up, it will all be over, but they have time.

"No matter what happens," He sniffs, whispering against the man's chest. "I don't want to lose you as my friend,"

And as he drifts into sleep, unsure of dreams or reality or where they end, he feels the arm tighten around him, and a soft kiss on his temple, with a promise drowned in half-waking. "I will never be your friend. Not ever. I promise,"


	7. VII

The longest day of Scout's life starts tardily.

He wakes alone, unsurprisingly. Gathers his things in the bitterly bright but chilly air, still half-drowsed from a sleep he didn't really get. Everybody else is waiting on him, and for the largest part, impatiently. He packed lightly as it is, but feels around in his pockets for change or notes. To his knowledge, they're getting dropped at a station, and he needs coffee if he's walking anywhere.

But when they pull up, Scout realises that he misunderstood the word 'station'.

The ground beneath the tracks is the only part that's been greened. A wind-swept stretch of concrete is covered in snow. There's a hut at the end, no coffee shop, just a raggedy, drawn station-master in snow boots. His face isn't even visible through the myriad of scarves and a pulled-down hat. When Scout goes to sigh, he sees it hang in the air, mocking him. What else did he expect?

The outside is colder than the floor of the ocean and just as blinding. Scout is the first out on trembling legs, completely enraptured by such a change or pace –a change of everything. Vile mountains peaks are jagged through gaps in the tundra, and the drift falls in his eyes no matter which way he stands, blinking furiously, feeling the cold biting him, and biting back. A shiver cuts the air in half. White sky, blue lips, sighs like cigarettes and memories of baked Alaska, snowball fights and sledging until he couldn't walk anymore.

He nudges forward a little, trying to work but in which direction life comes from. But without the flickering rumble of the gunnery it's impossible to. The pale flakes comes finger for his face, the air shuddering with pallor. Scout smiles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sniper watching him. The man sees everything –observes everything, down to the finest detail. It's been part of his career forever, and part of his life for much longer. That's what made it so flattering, to capture Sniper's attention. Sniper is supposed to have seen it all, and for him to have ever harboured any interest in Scout makes the boy feel-…well, like a child again. His heart plays hopscotch on his chest and uses his ribs like monkey bars. Maybe it's the snow.

Something heavy and warm drops around his shoulders. Scout turns, half-expectant, only to find the coat around his shoulders is as white as the snow, only to find Medic's good intentions. The coat isn't as thick as he had imagined or would like, but the chaste little kiss is innocuous enough.

Medic gives him a shaded smile. "Keep warm, liebling," But by the time Scout has turned around, searching through the sea of snowflakes, Sniper has turned away. He's found by the light of the lit cigarette, his face aglow for half a second, washed with gold, before the snow lays waste to the flame. Scout has to remind himself which side he's on.

With vague instructions, they find themselves orienteering in a vague direction. Scout has nothing but Medic's coat and a scarf to keep him from passing out. With each step, walking becomes harder, his vision becomes grainer and the warm, Australian voice becomes further away, spinning out where Scout can't reach. He wonders what he did to deserve this. He wonders what makes him so easy to resent.

It isn't long before he's trailing behind, breathless with shivers and exhaustion, no longer to feel his skin through the bitterness of the air, but just his bones. And his skeleton feels brittle like ice. Scout doesn't say a word, because they're all suffering, but pulls his clothes around him and tries to fight the shuddering air. It fights him from every side. Before long, most of the team stop, the pack a blur of scarves and grumbles. Sniper leads them. Sure, they respect him for his navigation, but if they knew how he treated Scout, he wouldn't look so sure.

The pack move when Scout is within their midst, sucking in air desperately like a woman in labour. He doesn't think about how ironic it is. Hell, he can't because Sniper is waiting for him. At first Scout is keen, and his heart looks out of his eyes. But the memory of his voice slows Scout to a snail's pace, and he can see all of that disgust once more, he can feel all of this hate, not just in Sniper's words, but every blow and every punch and every raindrop of blood that fell from a godless sky.

Scout isn't ready to forget any of that. Not yet.

Not when Sniper has said, 'I swear to God, I will tie you to the fence myself—' and Scout has to wonder who exactly Sniper paperclips his hands to when he prays, because any god who would listen to that is a confederate flag's wet dream. Any god like that is as poisonous as 'love',and there's this horrible part of Scout that thinks when Sniper said that, he was praying his own shadow.

Scout stands before Sniper the way a high school diploma stands before a PHD. He has nothing to say, and tries to pass the older man without looking, but he can't. The cold makes him sniff, pathetically, and he's bright red from shame. He's trembling. This might be his only chance, and yet, he still can't talk.

"You don't have anything to say?" Sniper muses. He looks up. "There's a first,"

Scout knows he just has to steel himself. Has seen Medic do it a million times. It looks so easy: just stand a little straighter, say a little less, feel a little less and pretend a lot more. And yet he wants to scream. It isn't funny. Sniper is nasty and petty and this isn't the person Scout remembers.

The man goes to insult him again. "You know, it's funny-"

Jesus, Scout is so tried. He's so weary of everything, especially this little hell that Sniper is keeping him in. "No, it ain't. You don't know anythin'." However Scout intends to sound is very different from the hiss that actually comes from his mouth. Exhausted, weary and resentful, he can't abide this petulance.

Sniper looks out at the snow, and remains just as cold as the air to Scout."I know that you're a slut," He says, with such conviction."And I know the only reason you slept with me was because you were-"

Scout feels his face go red again. "Do me a favour an' shut up." He stuffs his fists into his pockets and grumbles. It still hurts, because he still cares. Sniper is always going to mean something to him, not as a conquest, but as a friend. At least, once. "I ain't sleepin with you anymore anyway," The boy grumbles. His nose has gone red from the cold and he looks like a child in Medic's too-large coat, despite his being more mature than Sniper over the disaster.

"It's obvious how busy Medic keep yo-"

"Don't you talk to me about Medic !" Scout pauses in the snow. Now his whole face is rouge with annoyance, and his fists are curled hard into weapons of mass emotional destruction. The wind tears through them both, but Scout remains untouched, burning with hatred. "Keep sayin' shit like that, an' I'll hit you so hard you won't respawn straight."

They continue on in the snow. Scout doesn't make a move to leave the man's side, despite how foul the conversation has turned. Possibly because he's too fatigued to walk any faster in the conditions. Sniper really wants to believe that the boy's purpose here is catharsis. He's not good at being angry with people, because he's not good with people. Having spent most of his life so far alone in the company of dead beasts, he finds his conversation runs dry or nasty a little too quickly.

"What's the matter, Scout?" Sniper glares hard at him. "Ain't we friends anymore?"

The boy doesn't even flinch. He grabs a fistful of Sniper's shirt and hits him as hard as he can. In the face, and then once more, again, and again until his fists drop lower and his body goes weak and he's beating angrily against Sniper's shoulders. For a large part, Sniper doesn't even fight him. He peels Scout off of him like wiping away cheap lipstick, lips livid with blood.

The face of his enemy and lover is obscured by snow. Scout is nearly on the ground, weary and sick. Sniper's arm holds him up, fixed around his shoulder like stone. "I'm through with you,"

"No,"Scout struggles against him, grabs his shirt again, and holds fast."No, you ain't. If you were through with me, you'd be over it."Sniper's grip softens. He turns away slightly as if he's been caught out. "When were we ever friends?"

Sniper gives him a hard look and his eyes are full of muted thunder when he speaks. "When were we ever just sex?"

Scout rears back a little in panic. They have been here before, and no words serve any of the sentiments he tries to explain. This hatred, and love is too boisterous, and too rough. It cuts him open, and Scout can't figure it out. Because his definition of 'love' is being robbed in an alley 8 times and hoping there's something about today that makes it all better-...there is nothing rational about'love'.

Scout swallows. He speaks quietly, his voice hot. "If you were so goddamn committed to me, then why the hell didn't you have my back about this?" he gestures to his stomach vaguely. It's not something he wants to use, but here and now, he feels he must. The others won't see, either, and Scout has some pride left. He feels lightheaded, and breathless.

In a second, Sniper's voice is white-hot with rage, and it tears through the ice like a forest fire. "Of course I didn't have your back!" He hisses, and there is so much bitterness and jealousy and hurt underlying. No hour in the world could fix it. "How could I have had with the other two on yours?"

Scout laughs mirthlessly. He doesn't believe any of the shit he's hearing. "Like I meant so goddamn much to you," his vision is blurring worse. The air feels thin, ad he can't swallow it.

Sniper is too slow, and in the second he takes to try to reply, Scout sees it. All of that hurt, not because of Scout's pregnancy, but because of his ailing heart and criminal eyes. Sniper is still in some kind of love or lust. He's still in this fool's paradise, and Scout helped him create that facade without even knowing it.

All Sniper can muster is a grumble, "Maybe you did," The older man trudges on and looks forward distantly. Scout thinks about the time they held hands. And how nice that was. And how nice this could have been, if only he had known, if only he could think without feeling so slight. "You ain't the victim here. You got two other men who'll give you anything you fancy." He mutters.

It makes Scout nervous. He shakes his head. "Don't you play that sappy shit with me." He knows this trick. Or, what he perceives to be a trick. Ma does it all the time on the phone, or at christmas and family gatherings, and he's had it. "I ain't never said no to you. I never said you weren't somethin' more to me neither."

It doesn't seem to have worked, and Sniper laughs at him. Maybe he's just being defensive, though. "You professin' your love to me, now? Is that what it is?"

How very virtuous of him. In the distance, Scout can see Medic, knee-deep in the snow, with Heavy still stuck to him like a poisonous dart, chatting away animatedly him. He's still holding that book, and from here Scout can see what side of the gun Medic is standing on. Scout would take a bullet for Sniper, but now that man has his finger on the trigger.

"No, it ain't like that," He stammers. The world is spinning."It's-"

Sniper interrupts him gracelessly. Like a picket fence made into a protest sign, because he used to be sweet and patient. "I'll tell you what it's like," He says, "You 'love'whoever it's convenient to," Damn. Scout has never been so cruel. Has he?"You 'love'Medic when you bust your hand, or when you're sick. You love Spy when you want a cigarette." Sniper shakes his head. "I ran out of things to give you a long time ago. You don't love me,"

Scout swallows hard. His voice is a train-wreck but he doesn't care. Bites his lip, controls his temper, because Sniper is allowed to think like that. Scout has played him, and he can be angry as he sees fit. "What if I did?"

Sniper looks at him, suddenly alarmed. Even he can't muster a shock this unmitigated, and there's this tiny hint of a smile he suppresses that dies. He readjusts this grim sarcasm he wears, and folds his hands into his lap, dusting down his jeans, anything not to look at Scout. "What if I did?"

Scout laughs nervously. "Hey, pal, I asked first," Everything has slowed to underwater, and most of his weight is being supported by Sniper, despite the man's own struggle with the weather.

These games are juvenile, but they're comfortable. It's like they're holding on to the tatters of what they had, torn apart at the hands of a child. But at the three present in the conversation, aren't they all as much to blame? Sniper takes a deep breath and smiles to Scout. "Yeah, you did, but my question's more urgent,"

The boy tries to evade that glance, but if he swings his eyes too fast he'll vomit. He's been outplayed, but that's happened before. Scout looks at him, and tries to give away as little as possible with his eyes. "Well, I'd only love you if you loved me first,"

It's hilarious to Sniper. He shakes his head. "No, that ain't how it works-"

A shiver cuts through Scout words. He tries to gain back his certainty, but misplaces his feet and falls down in the show, his vision cutting out for intervals. "Maybe it is," He looks terrified that he's said the wrong thing, but the truth is, Sniper is so glad to know where they stand. Carefully, he lifts the boy up, no longer supporting him, but carrying him.

Scout is delirious. They have has been in darkness so long, and Sniper is still jealous and bitter and he's wrong more times than he is right but right now, Scout is giving him this nervous smile that's waiting for confirmation, so he better not fuck this up.

Sniper continues on. In this distance, a faint shape that looks like base keep him going. "Fine," Is all he says.

Scout rests his head on Sniper's shoulder and sighs contentedly. However badly this could turn out, and however nasty Sniper has been, Scout will recover. It tells the story of a boy who is just as scared of committing as he is of being alone.

Scout murmurs, "Fine." Against Sniper's warm neck. He doesn't mind the word so much in this context.

-

The base at Coldfront has a few things Teufort does not: hot chocolate, insulated quarters, a frozen lake across the way. But most of all: hot showers.

Scout leans hard against the tile and feels every bruise he's ever felt peel off of his skin and follow the way of the water, down the drain. He lets it wash away every curse he's said in the last year of being employed at RED.

He says, "Jesus, I missed this,"

Spy is under the faucet nest to him, pushing back his dark, sea-salted hair. He's beautiful. Scout never tires of looking at him. The man smiles brightly. "Well-deserved, I think, after such an abominable journey through this wasteland,"

The conversation is so nice, but all Scout can think about is how superficial it all is, and how Spy carefully never looks below Scout's neck, carefully doesn't touch him. In the last week of Teufort, Scout had complained to him that his back was terribly itchy but he couldn't reach it. Spy suggested a hairbrush. During the last dinner at Teufort, Scout asked him to pass the salt, and the man slid it down the table without even an excuse. Hell, Scout even offered him a blowjob, no catches, no nothing, and Spy said he wasn't interested.

At least Scout was brave enough to ask him what they were going to do. Around Sniper, he can't even vocalise the word 'pregnant', much less discuss it.

Scout wipes away all of the cold from his body with soap that actually lathers. He feels better for being carried the rest of the way, much to the team's delight. He couldn't stand to hear one more slave joke, one more nudge, wink, eyebrow raise, another 'how much do you okay him' joke, but Scout likes that they make fun of him. After all, like his brothers used to say, they wouldn't do it if they didn't think he was strong enough to take it. If he wasn't part of the team. Scout doesn't want to leave, or be taken away, but he isn't sure how to solve that problem, or even if he can.

Well, as understanding as the team can be, there are some things Scout would rather keep to himself. As the water begins to drop in pressure, Scout steps out, and seeks out his towel fast to sling high around his body. It's impossible to ignore for Scout, and it's attracting more attention. His only armour against the deluge of abuse he could face for being caught out is his track jacket, that he zips three-quarters of the way up after putting on his shirt and underwear. The logo on his shoulder reminds him how fleet-footed he's supposed to be.

Before Scout can leave, somebody slaps a hand on his back so suddenly Scout flinches a mile and lets out a squeak. He was so pulled into his thoughts that reality shocks him hard. Taking a breath in, Scout turns around to somebody laughing at him, and tries to smile hard. When he sees that it's just Heavy, he relaxes a little.

"Didn't mean to scare you, little Scout," He says, gently. Scout glares up at him, but doesn't mind it, because he is one of the smallest on the team. It's better than being called a kid, because Engineer is short, and he's damn useful. "Is your turn to cook. I will do this for you,"

At first, Scout can't help but be defensive. He raises a hand and mutters, "Hey, I aint-…" But softens, realising that it's not an insult, or an insinuation. People don't usually do things out of the 'kindness of their hearts', in Scout's experience. But here, Heavy isn't asking anything, isn't making any demands or setting any terms. "Thanks, man." He says, quietly."That's…that's real nice of ya,"

The man lets out a deep, kind rumble. "Is not problem. I think I am better cook," He smiles. Scout can't argue with that, and for once, he doesn't even want to. He's tired, and the day has been long and tomorrow will be longer. At least they don't have to fight. It's already late afternoon despite the white sky. It continues to snow noiselessly. Scout gives him an overly-gracious'thank-you' again, and departs. He considers himself a social person, but everybody gets drained.

-

Everybody is housed upstairs. It's not glamorous by any means, but most of the team have been before and have remnants lurking in their rooms. Old magazines, or poster, or letters. Soldier kept most of his winter gear at Coldfront, and Scout thinks of doing that in the future. He thinks a lot about getting everything in order, about being in control and having nothing unsaid, or unfinished, but when he fixes one thing, another seems to break.

The fleet-foot on the wooden door is bleak and needs a repaint. Scout doesn't know anything about the old Scout, and doesn't intend to learn. The room seems haunted enough. The single bunk casts a skeletal show. The sheets are a yellowed-white, and fluffy with age. Corners of torn-down posters border patches where the walls shine brighter, talks of a past where it once was sunny, maybe. As if there was life here once. A RED-issued copy of the handbook sits on a RED-standard metal desk. There is also a RED-standard stationary kit, and a card bow. A leather strap is curled over the side of the box, and on the side in mourning marker pen, Scout can read 'Scott F'.

He swallows. It's worse when there are names. Names mean realities, and pasts, and mothers to give those names and bullies to mock them and people -Jesus, there must have been a real person who lived out of this room. Who slept here, and prayed here.

Scout swallows. He braves the box.

The strap is attached to a Polaroid Colourpack II, dusty and use, but worn where hands have held it. There is a small, fat envelope tucked in beneath it. Scout dips his hand in, uncertainly, expecting to be bitten by something-…what? A ghost? He tears open the seal and pours it's contents into his hand. Blank white pictures. Scout turns them over, and nearly drops the packet. For, despite the black-and-white of the photographs, we can see what's in them. Or rather: who.

The first is of a younger Engineer and a lanker-looking Soldier on either side of who must be 'Scott F'. He's a very light blonde, and looks much stronger than Scout is. They look happy, and it's those stolen, dumb smiles that make Scout flick the photograph over. The one beneath it is the same. They have doubled. He goes through the pack, smiling coyly at candid's of Medic with darker hair and a longer fringe and a less-weary smile, at a Sniper who must be new to the team, looking rougher, and rugged, and fresher from the outback. It appears that 'Scott F' was closest with Soldier, though, both in old sports Jerseys in more than one photo.

He smiles all the way until the last photo. It contains all of the team in early-sixties, black-and-white glory, smiles wide and a little forced, red uniforms grey but just as powerful. Spy is maskless but his eyes are hidden by a pair of yellow shades, that aren't his. His smile is real, realer then perhaps anybody else's and Scout follows his arm to a hand clasped tightly within Sniper's. And Scout knows what they do to men who hold hands. He knows the gesture isn't innocuous by the careful centimetre of space between the rest of the team.

Scout stuffs them back into the envelope and puts it on the side of the desk. He lets out a breath and looks further into the box. Beneath the camera is a large set of pyjamas, with white-and-blue stripes, some old shirts, and a notebook. It has his name in the front, and a single sentence on the first page that reads 'I just woke up'. It has a single strike through it. Maybe the kid didn't have much to say for himself.

Scout goes to sit on the bunk, and takes the camera with him. He holds it to his chest and finds the clasp, to check for film. It rests atop the swell of his abdomen, and in Scout's fumbling in the half-darkness he gets blinded by a sudden flash and hears the shutter snap to attention. He drops the camera onto the bed and tries to get back his breath, because he feels like a bit of an idiot, and a little guilty for touching somebody's camera. At least it has film. Now, Scout feels as if Scott would have liked somebody to continue this legacy of photography, by he can bet a good amount of money that the photo he just took isn't quite what the old scout would have had in mind.

He goes down to dinner without the camera, but with questions.

Downstairs is steamy and hot with the smell of potatoes and real, good food. Scout is half-starved, and comes down gladly to a full table of friends. Most of them have found old knick-knacks or memorabilia and are chatting animatedly about the past excitedly. Sniper is quiet. His face is hard and fixed in the past, and there's a little blood on his shirt. Scout means to ask about it, but he gets caught up with the general chutzpah around him.

They eat together. Hot showers and hot food is well-appreciated on all counts, and there are no complaints at the table tonight, no talk of defeats or battles to be won. Fighting in the snow is hard and dirty and all kinds of messy, but they leave all of that dread for tomorrow, where the problem lies. For now, the journey is over, and their reward is this: hard-earned and well-sought.

Afterwards, the conversation is quieter, and they remembers phonecalls to be made, errands to be done and strategies to think of. Scout doesn't linger long. He thinks about the photographs upstairs as he staggers down the steps towards the Infirmary, places differently here. It's a basement, almost, dug deep into the snowy ground and cold as hell. It looks like one of those haunted joints that his brothers used to go to on halloween, with out-of-date diagrams and dusty equipment. The lights flicker a little, but prevail. A bird cage is open on the examination table. Three doves are perches on a filing cabinet.

One of them flies over to Scout casually, and lands on the brim of his hat, cooing a little, leaning forward. Scout waves a hand and grumbles. He doesn't like bird much. Well, when they're deep fried in seasoning he likes them fine, but not so much in the live and annoying variety. As he goes to bat the bird away he hears a stern voice from further in.

"Leave him," From the office door, out of sight to the far left,Medic emerges, with a stack of dusty papers. The place, it would seem, is in disarray, but for once Medic is in a fine mood. It's rare to see him this dressed-down, nothing but his shirt and tie remain of his usual uniform. He smiles at Scout, and without the weight of the coast and his weapons, he looks younger, and more relaxed. A little more like the man in the photograph, standing meekly next to Heavy. "He only wants to play, there's no need to hurt him,"

Scout grumbles again, and the bird leaves him."Well, he can play with somethin' else,"

Medic even manages a laugh. What a strange day. "That he can, vogelchen."The man sits, and rubs his eyes. Scout stays where he's stood, feeling awkward and intrusive. He stares at Medic and hopes his glance can say what he doesn't. "I didn't expect to be seeing you so soon. You have another-" The man leans over and looks at the calendar on his desk. "-thirty-four hours before you're due back in my Infirmary."

That gives Scout pause. He never waits to be invited. Whatever this is, between them, it doesn't rely on an invitation. Hell, it all started because Scout was bored and he liked bothering Medic and he when he broke things the man looked especially cute when he was exasperated. He hooks his thumbs into his belt-loops and shrugs, leaning on his toes.

All he says is, "I jus' need to borrow your phone,"

The man nods to him. See, his face is still serious, but that's the way it is anyway. Scout knows he can rouse almost anything he wants from the man, but a smile isn't always an indicator of happiness, and he likes that Medic is honest with the world. Wishes he could be more like that.

Of course, when Scout stays by the desk, still rocking slightly, Medic knows something is wrong. The desk is a tundra of papers, and Scout's body is a battlefield, hair the colour of the Somme, face the colour of Stalingrad, his expression a white flag. The boy clears his throat.

"Was there something else?" Medic asks him. Sure, he's busy, but they're all busy. It reminds Scout of his first day here, and the first time he met Medic, who turned and asked him in a stern voice to turn his head and cough. He had said 'keep it PG-13, eh, Kraut?', and this sneer he was given was so nasty and personal and winning that Scout just grinned dumbly. Jesus, Medic wouldn't even talk to him in those first few weeks, avoiding Scout at dinner and ignoring him in battle and even when Scout come into the infirmary, he didn't waste words on the boy.

It took weeks of annoying Medic that Scout finally managed to goad him into throwing Scout against a wall and shutting him up the only way he could.

Without a word, Scout reaches deep into his pockets and produces the black-and-white photograph, the one housing the entire team. As he goes to the telephone, he puts it on the corner of Medic's desk.

They both carefully say nothing about it. And when Scout re-emerges, with his ears stinging, and his mouth dry with all of these things he wants to say, but can't, Medic is looking at him distantly. The older man scratches his neck and speaks very quietly.

"Were these left here?" Scout shrugs, and then nods. The silence is heavy and stifling, but Medic doesn't seem to feel it. Scout feels so stupid for asking the question, and for being suspicious because these men owe him nothing, and yet, it falls out his mouth before he can close it.

"They hate eachother, Doc," He says, in a small voice. "This picture don't make any sense,"

When Medic speaks, he looks right at Scout, caught in a memory, perhaps something that was said or witnessed. His voice is kind when he speaks. It is to scout, especially thesedays. And maybe he isn't owed anything, but he's been given all of this care and attention and time from Medic, who has the least to give, and Scout knows he should reciprocate, that he should be thankful. But he can't.

"It really isn't my place to say," He says, softly. "Why didn't you ask somebody else?"

The truth is hard to put into words, but Scout finds them, eventually. He smiles sheepishly, and slaps a hand gently against Medic's shoulder. "You –you're clever, y'know? Ya know stuff," And then, in a smaller voice, one that means something, he almost whispers. "You're the only one who'd gimme the honest truth,"

Face red, Scout turns to go. Whatever the picture is showing him, Scout can wait to find out. So long as he doesn't have to look into those eyes, all cloudy with this desire for proximity, this chemical kind of love, because if Scout looks at them, there won't be anything in his. He's at the door when Medic breaks.

"I think they were lovers," He says, quickly. "It was a long time ago. I don't know for sure."

That's all he needs to know. Scout swallows his –whatever it is that he's feeling that's hot and sickly, and tries on his most genuine smile. "Thanks, Doc. I guess I'll see you in thirty-four hours,"

Medic jokes, "I'll count the minutes,"

Scout has made up his mind about two things.


	8. VIII

The thought of sleeping alone is just as terrifying as being with somebody.

This is what drives Scout from a corpse-like trance early into the morning, when the hours are small. He finds himself down the stairs and across the hall, blinking at crosshairs that mark the spot. He knocks.

The grumblings from within speak of a man roused from sleep. None of the team sleep well while in transit. Scout would feel bad, if he did not feel so paralyzing lonely. All of the memories of 'Scott F' keep him from resting peacefully, too absorbed with a fear that he will be forgotten, that none of them miss or love or care. Sniper comes to the door eventually, looking a mess.

Men like them are the loneliest in the world.

"You got a clock, kid?" He grumbles, scratching his side, and keeping one hand on the door. He doesn't take requests. At least, none this late, or none in this mood. All the while Scout is just looking very seriously at him when those eyes should be shut, dead to the world in sleep. When he's certain that Scout isn't just being fickle with bright beauty, he steps back and grants him entrance. "Come on in, then," He says, when Scout is already sat on the bed.

"You couldn't answer before hell and my ass freeze over next time, could ya?"Scout grumbles. He assumes consent just as much as Spy does, slipping in under the cover and adjusting one of the pillows. Lightning-fast, he swipes the cigarettes on the bedside table, and lights it with the same haste.

Sniper picks the pack off of him grumpily, and remains besides him, over-the-covers. The chaste virtue of the moment is something Scout carefully says nothing about.

The darkness is pierced by the fury of the lighter but for a second again, and then there are two cigarette tips glowing in the darkness like weary fireflies. Sniper tries to find the boy's face, and stares at the parted lips. They are curved in a serene smile. "This ain't a hotel,"

A short, sharp laugh. "You better believe I'm gonna complain about the service, though," The sheets nearly go up in smoke when Scout leans his head against Sniper's shoulder. After flinching a couple thousand miles, he settles, unsure if this is what he wants. It's nice, whatever it is. Nicer than holding hands.

"You couldn't sleep?" His voice is quiet, so as not to disturb the heavy stillness of the air. Others are sleeping, and in cardboard walls away they dream carelessly. Scout could have had any one of them, potentially, and yet, it wouldn't have satisfied something more deeply-rooted than desire for skin, and body heat and life. He shakes his head. "I was sleeping fine, thanks for asking."

Scout rears his head and taps ash onto the man's shoulder with a serpentine smile. "I woulda asked if I wanted ta know," The sheets are pigeon grey, and Scout pools them around him, leaving not even the friendliest of corners for the older man. Worse than that, he can't seem to stay still, always in perpetual motion, as if staying still or the most fleeting moment would cause him to become a supernova of nervous energy and potential, a lightning rod that would burn through everything.

Sniper winds his arms around the boy like stone, speaking into the boy's neck, holding the cigarette off with his other hand. "Lay still, you little shit,"

Again, Scout gives a short bark of a laugh. Most of the time, he doesn't get the joke, but needs the laugh. To make a point, scout turns onto his side once more, and even in the dark, his face is visible, chin jutted out in defiance. "I ain't little, old man,"

But he is. Sniper is always horrified at just how miniscule and breakable the boy is, how thin his arms are, and how easy it would be to snap one of his wrists in a single movement. Despite all of this talk and his speed and remorselessness, Scout is small, and unimportant, really. What does he mean away from the places they have found him?

But Sniper is smarter than to say that, and leans up to smoke. Instead, he says, "Nah, you ain't little no more," And punctuates his joke by tightening his arm around Scout's chest.

The boy hisses and batters his legs, swimming up in the darkness as deep as the ocean floor, and his glare is just as hard and tangible in the dark as it would be under any kind of light. Maybe he deserves it, especially since Sniper is laughing now, making Scout's fighting against his grip even more futile.

"Yeah, yeah," The boy grumbles. Whatever humour there is to be found in the joke misses him. It has been so long since he actually laughed, or even just seemed to enjoy himself. Everyday Sniper catches him, once or twice a day, in thought, and the way he is in the light, he looks so much older already. "Laugh it up, asshole. You're real funny."

The darkness extends when the boy crushes out the life in his cigarette on the dresses by the bed. There must be three layers between them, he is acutely aware. Underwear and Scout's shirt and underwear, but it feels like space, a universe, stretching out and expanding, which had started with a bang the moment Medic's lips came loose. They fall into a silence heavy with such solemnity. Sniper remains close. He doesn't deny himself this privilege of the moment, enjoying the warm of another body, the careless smell of youth.

After a while, he braves a question. "Why did you-" Most of all, he needs some kind of confirmation. Why here, and not with somebody else? What did Scout think he would find, or be given? The boy turns on his other side, and faces the older man. All Sniper can see is the shine on the boy's eyes.

"You can fuck me if you keep the lights off," He mumbles. It's not a solicitation or an invitation. It's giving up. It hadn't crossed his mind at all, because this –whatever he'd later call it—was enough. Just to be close in the most innocuous sense carried in itself more affection and trust he could think of. Scout could have fucked anybody tonight, could have climbed into any bed and worked the room. To seek proximity is attachment. "Jus' be careful not to wake nobody up,"

Dispassionately, the boy starts these loveless ministrations on Sniper's neck, but his hands are cold and his movements feel so rehearsed. All the performance lacks is lighting, is some kind of sound. Scout's eyes are bereft of anything as he continues, staring vacantly up at the older man for some kind of motive or direction, with which he is never provided.

"Scout," He says, almost silently. The boy pauses briefly, and gives him this look that women wear, and world-weary old men. Not boys, and not like this. "Just go to sleep, would you?"

Scout gives him a sneer. "Oh, sure, you're welcome," And he gives Sniper his back once more. Of course, Scout is relatively easy to charm and it won't be long before he's all smiles and passion and laughter again. Or at least, Sniper hopes so. "You oughta learn some manners, y'know,"

"Bloody hell," He laughs at scout, and sits up in the dark. It's still snowing, but outside, it's completely blue. The ground is a soft lilac in the tiniest hours of the morning and the sky is as crystalline as the icicles hanging from the gutter above the window. In the morning, he will regret enjoying the view, and the boy's voice, and he will long for sleep. But for now, all he smiles to the night, and not at all to Scout. "I can't believe you woke me up for this."

When he goes to lie back down, Scout is stretched out, occupying almost all of the space with this serene smile. He mewls a little, and then curls in, giving the man a little room. "Then go back to sleep and quit complainin' already,"

Sniper faces the ceiling. "I never had headaches like this before you came along."

The boy laughs. "You'll learn to live with it, huh?" He rests his head on Sniper's chest and yawns, despite being passive for all of the second-half of the day. They breathe in synchronisation, and the room sighs with them. "I'm pretty tired, though,"

Sniper laughs. "And why shouldn't I keep you up?" He feels a boneless hand swat him on the chest.

"F'you keep me from sleepin', I'll beat ya senseless,"

What's funniest is how very serious Scout sounds. So Sniper croons, grinning. "Is that right?" On average days, he suffers a thousand fates worse than that: deep wounds and exit wounds and utter torture. The threat carries nothing but metaphor, like most of Scout's speech. On being called out, the boy makes a noise of protest but remains motionless in the dark. "G'night," he mumbles.

Scout sighs. He rolls onto his back and his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. They never close, and Sniper realises belatedly that the boy is making no attempt to sleep. The rest of the team are silent to the world, but he remains awake with this boy, listening to the generators humming. Ten minutes pass this way, and then Scout turns onto the side and looks at Sniper again, all seriousness and large, obscured eyes. He kicks him.

"Are you asleep?"

He cracks an eye open. "Well, I was." Muttering, he pushes himself on his hands and casts the boy a glance. He doesn't mean to be rude, but the privation from sleeps causes his speech to be frank. Of course, Scout takes it personally right away, and gives him another gorgeous, dazzling sneer that tells of a boy who wants to be remembered for what he was, not what he is.

Scout stares at the pillow, and not Sniper. Makes a point of it. . "Well, jeez chuckles, forget I ever said nothin'."

He stays like this as they fall into more silence, too stubborn to anything, but to impressionable to let the thought lie like he lies with so many others, and to so many others. The thoughts in Sniper's mind sink like hard marbles to the bottom of a fishtank. He is consumed by Scout.

After a while, he murmurs. "Scout?" The boy's eyes flick to him instantly, open for just this once, with no motive or conspiracy in them. "What were you going to say?"

His expression closes up so fast. "It don't matter. Go to sleep."

He's so frustrating. And pretty. If it were enough just to look, and not have to taste that white skin with broad touches and teeth, they would be somewhere else entirely. He nudges the boy with a foot, vying for the boy's honesty.

"You might well just tell me." He says, quietly. Scout hates being told what to do, and he's heard it be called the 'boomerang effect': that if the kid feels his freedom is threatened by an order, he'll do the opposite. As if reading from the textbook, Scout rolls over and sighs.

"I said it don't matter. You gonna let me sleep, already?" Scout could easily leave it there, and then they would both eventually fall to sleep, and that would be the end of things, but he doesn't. Academics aside, Scout isn't all that smart. "Besides," He goes on to mumble. "It's stupid."

"Kid," Sniper sighs, loving the glare he's being given, such hatred and passion in honesty. "You're stupid, but I put up with you-"

The laugh Scout manages is forced, but there's something behind it. "Whatever, Einstein. You ain't exactly a brainiac. An' you snore, too."

Sniper allows himself to look taken aback. He turns to face Scout full on and laughs a little, not only at the ridiculousness of the accusation but also at the tenacity with which it was delivered. "I don't snore, you bloody idiot. And you do, too."

Scout grins. "Yeah, I definitely do. What else you got?"

"Your shoes reek." Sniper says. He grins at the reaction, of Scout's eyes going sharp with familiarity, and a smile he hasn't seen in so damn long finally emerging, as Scout nods to him, palms held up in honesty. "They're disgusting."

"You made me leave 'em outside in the summer, you ass." A grin.

"For a damn good reason."

Scout springs to life suddenly, sitting up a little more and waving a hand like an excited child. The world-weary man from his eyes is all gone when he speaks. "Well, you got smoker's cough. It's ridiculous. I don't wanna wake up listenin' to that,"

"It's gotten better, since you started stealing all my bloody cigarettes,"

Scout laughs. "You leave 'em out. An' when you pee in the morning, ya leave the door open. It's the worst." He's laughing in earnest now. Sniper shakes his head.

"You're the worst-"

"I know." And just like that: from a thousand miles a minute to complete standstill, the boy stifles him. The laughter in his eyes dries up like July in Teufort and suddenly, Scout doesn't look grand or young or even happy. Suddenly Sniper can see that his lips are chapped, and that his eyes are purple from little sleep.

His voice is troubled with basic comprehension. "Scout-…"

The boy evades him thoughtlessly. "I should get some sleep." But what he means to say is something else, and much harder to put into words. Sniper lets him be, because if it's that important, the words will find their way out eventually. It's polite enough to wait. He sighs and closes his eyes. He hears only Scout's quiet voice, like a footnote, in the darkness.

"I know it's dumb," He says, "I jus' don't wanna be left on my own."

It's no something Sniper has given very much thought to. "Why would you be left on your own?"

He hears rustling. Scout must be adjusting the covers, and in a colder voice, he speaks again. "I ain't sure. My Ma got left by herself when she found out she was havin' Jeb. An' they were married-…" A soft pause. "Are you gonna leave me?"

He shrugs. "I don't think so."

There's this desperation when Scout speaks again. He goes to speak a lot sooner, all foolish and rushed and adrift with thoughts. But Scout rights himself, and speaks with admirable composure. "But I need somethin' more solid. There ain't a guarantee that you won't wake up tomorrow and…and feel differently."

Sniper feels hollow, and sleepy. He wets his lips to speak. "I can't do anything more."

The boy shrugs. "Nobody can."

Sniper falls into a restless sleep thinking about the boy he used to know not long ago, who was untouchable, and invincible, and full of life. It goes to show what loneliness does to a person. It goes to show how even the mighty fall in love.

-

When he finds Spy, at last, the man is smoking out in the cold. The light of the evening has faded, and the fallen snow turns to ashy lilac under a dying day. They are weary and tired, but they are also intrepid. They carry on.

Scout knocks on the doorframe he's holding with the bottle in his hand, careful not to break the glass, and attracts Spy's attentions. Once he has the man's eyes, he holds up the bottle, and presents it with an exaggerated flourish. Out goes the amber of the cigarette as Spy moves towards him slowly.

Scout forgets pride and decides to just say it outright. "Don't make me drink alone," He mumbles, softly.

And Spy says, "Of course."

They end up laying on their stomachs, on the surly floor of Scout's room, listening to the radio and taking turns in drinking. Conversation is nice with Spy, it always has been. Even if they don't agree, which is more often than most people assume, there is a good humour between them; an easy give-and-take that means Scout doesn't always have to sleep with him to enjoy his company. The laughter keeps coming. The wine is a surprising delight.

Scout doesn't drink much. He talks more, and with less substance, but Spy seems happy enough to listen. He leans forward and turns the wine bottle in one hand and reads the label.

"Core-ton-" he squints, and tries not to sound as oafish as possible as he stumbles over the phonetics of another languages. "Corton sha-vot lay-b-"Spy laughs at him, all in good-nature. A thin strand of hair keeps dipping into Spy's forehead and it's endearing. Scout looks at it when he speaks. "Hey, I only took one semester in French, an' I failed anyway,"

"It's Corton Chauvot Labaume 1964," The words are meaningless but sound so damn pretty in their native tongue. It's almost a shame that Spy doesn't speak it more often. Almost a shame that his English is so fluent and comfortable. He doesn't stumble like Heavy or slip into his native tongue like Medic, but remains masterful of everything he tries. He is even graceful when he takes a drink from the bottle, and smiles through red lips.

"Was that a good year or somethin'? 1964?"

Spy shrugs. He watches Scout's hands with lazy eyes, as the boy half-heartedly rolls a cigarette, only using one hand, sending wisps of tobacco on the wood besides him where they become indistinguishable and lost. "I don't know about the wine," He says, "But '64 was a fantastic year,"

"It was?" Scout murmurs, perturbed by an exclamation of such passion. Spy rolls onto his side and nods to Scout with warm eyes.

"But of course." He says. "I was in love, I wanted for nothing, and for most of the summer we had wine," Scout doesn't much like to think about RED before his arrival. It's all he's known outside of Boston, it's his 'great perhaps', and he always feels a little sick going home, and feeling like he's outgrown the place he once knew as he universe, as his 'city on the head of a pin'. Now, Spy is smart, and travelled, and well-versed. His pleasures are sins. Are simpler.

Scout waves a hand. "Pssh, please. My '64 was real beautiful." He recalls it shinier and more golden then it could have possibly been. His memories are often like that. "Graduated highschool." He takes a sip. "Saw my first dirty film, courtesy a' my brothers." Another quick nip. "My first fuck," He grins. It's nothing to be grinning about, because even in his lightest memories and happiest days, there was nothing golden about the affair. "Professor Matthews,"

Spy frowns to him. "How old?"

It makes Scout nervous. He shrugs. "I was the one who wanted it. An' he didn't do nothin' bad, y'know."

Eyes are drilling in to Scout's skull and he would rather give himself a lobotomy than let Spy give him this look of pity that's so disgusting he wants to melt like paraffin wax. "How old?"

"Thirty-eight," Scout swallows. "But he didn't hurt me. He couldn't hurt me, 'cause I wanted it, and I was askin' for it," Scout pushes the half-rolled cigarette and it's components to one side and sighs. His face is red, but neither of them mention it, very carefully. Spy doesn't prompt or discourage him to speak, but the air turns so foul with that sentiment hanging around that Scout feels he has to. "Had my first kiss, too." He nods. "Girl called Mia Lynch,"

"How was it?" Spy asks him, with a small smile.

Scout laughs. "Fuck, it was terrible." He takes another, suitable sip of wine. Despite his best intentions, he exercises restraint quite well, because his scheduled rendezvous with Medic lingers in his mind, and he wanted to be trusted. "I can't imagine you bein' nervous, y'know,"

"Neither can I," Spy nudges the bottle towards him and shrugs like it means nothing. He's seen more and kissed more and Scout doesn't doubt he's hard everything before, and that he stays to listen does mean something. The bottle sits between them, and despite the rouge of his lips, Scout doesn't feel thirsty. Instead, he feels guilty.

"I ain't supposed to be drinkin', really." He says, softly. As with all things like alcohol, and sex, Scout only uses them to achieve proximity, to not be alone and paralysed by the monotony of his life. It's sad but true: this kind of love is a pyramid scheme. Then Spy is looking at him boredly, as if he expected something more from Scout. But he's just a boy.

"Ah," The man makes a noise of understanding. "And I suppose if you Docteur asked you for your eyes-"

Scout snarls, putting up his own defences before he can even manage himself. "There ain't a gun against my head, y'know. I make my own damn decisions." He stares hard at Spy, because he needs Spy to believe what he's saying so that he can, too. At least this way, even if he dislikes his choices, he'll suffer for them. Spy is looking at him passively, not believing it, and Scout scowls. "I made my mind up about this, y'know. On my own,"

They both know what he's talking about without having to say anything.

Spy takes another drink, and takes one of Scout's rolled cigarettes to smoke, lighting it up one-handed. They're not done talking, that's for certain, and Scout catches his own arm wound around his waist, as if for protection. He removes it.

"Might I ask you a question?" Spy speaks out of nowhere, gracing the speech with lilac smoke and the pleasant smell of tobacco. There's a hint of both suspicion and smugness in his voice, one that Scout doesn't trust, but takes his chances on anyway.

He waves a hand casually. "Ya might,"

Another perfect ring of smoke frames Scout's face, and he blinks through it, feeling like a snapshot rather than a person. Spy seems to be selecting his words carefully. "Did Medic ever tell you, explicitly, that he wanted children?"

It takes Scout aback. The question doesn't seem to bear any relevance to their situation. But, still, he gives it some consideration. "Uh, no." He swallows, and considers again. "Like, not explicitly. You can kinda tell,"

Spy nods, and gives Scout this winning smile like he's answered correctly. "That you can," The silence doesn't last for very long, but the time it does fill is heavy and suspect. "And do you want this child?"

Jesus Crucified Christ. Scout doesn't even know how to process the question. If he really considers it, sits down and does some calculations his nose will probably bleed. He knows that he is being foolish and selfish and naive, and he knows that without having ever had a father of his own, he knows nothing about children, or raising one. It still hasn't hit home. It still isn't real, and it will take a very tangible ghost to frighten him, let alone convince him.

But he can't tell Spy that, and be found as ridiculous and worthless as he suspects. Scout has never heard of girls of summer actually keeping the children they are left with. But those girls will never be left alone for too long.

He says. "I know what I'm doin'." An evasion that Spy sees right through.

"There is no doubt of that. But that isn't what I asked you,"

So Scout just nods. "Yeah," He says, not believing his own lie in the slightest, but saying it with the greatest conviction he can muster. "Yeah, of course I do."

The next question absolutely blindsides him.

"I see. Are you in love with Medic?"

Scout would never say it to Medic, because he knows how the man himself feels, how his pride and heart is all tangled up in this mess of a boy who can reduce him to nothing with but a word. He wouldn't say it, but Scout thinks he knows. He thinks they all know.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so,"

Spy seems to just leave it there. Takes his hand off of the big red button it was hovering over and suddenly Scout is left with all of these things that he suspected but could never be sure of. Spy is just sitting there, next to the changed world of a boy besides him, smoking as he does always, completely unperturbed by the revelations.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" He is asked, suddenly. Scout shakes his head. "There's an old cabin off in the clearing. I would appreciate the company."

Scout wants to say yes immediately. He wants solace, and yet, he wants attention, and it seems like the best bargain he'll be able to strike. Just one problem.

"That's outside of the respawn zone by a few miles," He notes. Spy shrugs, so careless for a man of such complications.

"Is that a problem?" And Scout shakes his head because he was always told to be honest, and honestly? It sounds nice enough. He has stirred no quarrel with BLU that he can recall. They fall into the contented silence of comfort as Spy nods. "Good."

It doesn't last forever, though.

"Can I ask you a question?" Scout turns on his side and looks very seriously at Spy. The man Is struck by the boy's solemnity and nods.

"It seems only fair,"

Scout swallows and tries to make his question sounds innocent and without agenda. Well, Spy doesn't love him, and he's a grown man, who doesn't need sweetening with bitter truths. If Scout is going to ask, he might well just do it, and suck it up.

"You were-…you were with Sniper, before I came to RED." At the mention of such an unstirred, buried memory, Spy's eyes betray his heart and for a moment he goes from hard as metal to soft, like nostalgia, and Scout can see this fragment of a man, the one Sniper held hands with, the one he smiled with.

"I was," Is all Spy can manage, it seems.

"Did you love him?" It sounds silly. Scout doesn't really know what love is, or what it means or how to find it or how to use it. There's no box, or user's manual or warranty or receipt for return. Sometimes it seems to do more damage than good. And yet, this is the first time Spy has looked like that. The staggered onslaught of thought wakes Spy from his most private memories.

"Sniper is selfish, and cruel." Is how he begins, struggling to find the right adjectives form what the man likely remembers. "He is spiteful, and cold. He was-"

Scout knows that what Spy means to say is 'yes'.

"We were foolish to look for qualities in eachother that were never there,"

He says nothing more. He doesn't have to.

-  
Scout is out of time when he goes to the Infirmary. There are no hours left. And Medic comes to him like a sunset, with a smile and ears open to reason and decision, his face painted beautiful with a love not brave enough to materialise. He waits for Scout's words. One word in particular. Yes.

He is never asked if he is sure. If he wants to consult an expert, if he needs more time, more alcohol. If he needs somebody else.

He says. "Yes."

And Medic gives him all of these words and illogical instructions and information that comes to him like white noise. All he can think of are Spy's words in his head, and nothing else, even when Medic is examining him, and laying gentle hands on his stomach, and when he's kissing the boy, pressing him against the tie and showing him what 'love' means in the most clinical context.

All of the things Medic is looking for, his deals of stability and commitment and passion and even just love…Scout has none of them.

-

The cabin in the clearing is warm and comfortable. There is music and wine and eyes softer than flames.

Scout tells him in certainty. "I'm having a kid,"

He hears the glass break before he can finish the sentence.


	9. IX

It had started in the early evening.

The cabin in the clearing was not much of a house. The windows were boarded up and it was freezing inside, but they managed a fire, and sat by the hearth. The radio spoke to them, sang to them, and Spy had wine and Egyptian cigarettes and all of the charm Scout could have ever wanted.

They were just talking. That's all they had been doing. As with the night before, of memories and ghosts, and loose girls from Rome, and baseball, Boston, broken-hearts and Bordeaux. Scout was laying closer, close enough that they kissed sometimes. Spy had an arm around him the whole night, and Scout felt like he was wearing eternity, he felt for once that he had things in order, that he wasn't going to be left alone in a desert of his own navigation.  
He had been happy. Deep-down happy.

The only light in the room was the fire. And maybe Scout was a little tired, and a little drunk, and maybe the Egyptian cigarettes were a little strong and exotic. Usually, he is social and surrounds himself with many people, but the solace, the small scrap of heaven was enough for him, then. They were painted golden in the firelight, lips red from the wine, eyes shiny from seeing too much.

They stayed late into the night. Of course, Scout was going to follow Spy when he left, and not a moment sooner. At least for that night, he put his decisions and trust in Spy, and the man would do what he would with him. Which meant too many 'je t'aimes', and too many cigarettes, and too much history, and kisses that said more than his words could, said lovers but meant friends, better off this way.

Spy's hands never fumbled. With immovable grace, he had talked all of Scout's clothes off, and he shivered under the scrutiny of wiser eyes. Scout was lying on the carpet completely exposed in every sense, his eyes closed, his breathing taught. And Spy had taken the boy's face with a gentle hand and murmured, "Peace, boy. Eyes on me."

When Scout had opened his eyes, there was a constellation of tears on his lashes, and stars falling like suicide down his cheeks. He was not afraid, by paralysed by this universal feeling of defencelessness. What Spy desired was not in the snowy skin of Scout's body, and not in the soft pink his lips, but something deeper, and much harder to get at.

With the firelight hanging over his shoulders, and a river of wine rushing inside of him, he made these promises, the stroked up Scout's thigh's and promised him all without any words, to please him and to comfort him, and soon enough, they were both walking a path to higher ground, out of their skin, and through the clouds. They were cast adrift for hours, red skin, lesser white throats, vying for dominance, and lust and something else, Scout didn't cry any more, he wailed, electric like a live wire, his skin the colour of the blitzkrieg as he called out, the entire clearing with freedoms other men had not and never would know.

And for what was an eternity abridged, Scout become voiceless, robbed of his most powerful weapon and could only beg and sigh his way through the motion of Spy's hips, his promises, and the 'eyes on me'. When at last the boy came, his white face red like strawberries in the summertime, he was followed into a darkness starry with diamonds. Because for wherever they found themselves, Spy was back in the game, and that was better than fireworks, forty-fourths, the storming of the Bastille, better than revolution, better than sex and secrets and crack, smack, cocaine...better than life, breathing, better than sunsets, night skies, better than the blood of every BLU.

And afterwards, Spy had looked at him and said, "You are very beautiful,"

Whatever Scout chose to believe on the matter, he kept it to himself and shrugged. "I think I was,"

"Was, cher?"The cigarettes were exotic and talk of a class Scout would never achieve, not even in his daydreams.

Vanity did not possess him but something else, just a human, but less bitter and nasty, less superficial. He placed a limp hand on his stomach, where the red fabric was tighter and stretched. "Yeah, I was, but I ain't no more," Spy was still looking at him even long after he was done speaking, so Scout just shrugged and sighed. "What do I care?" And he allowed himself a small smile. "I'm havin' a kid-"

That is when the glass of the old windows bursts. That's when the place lights up with fire, with the burning passion of intolerance, and flames catch on the old boarding, the dry wood of the building like violence and scornful, mocking laughter shakes Scout's meanings from his words. In the midst of a sudden blaze, he can hear his enemy.

"Don't ya get th' joke?" it cuts right through the shattering of the glass. The BLU Demoman has no quarrel with hem, but he isn't alone. Scout knows laughter when it comes from his hometown. The place is smoking in less than a second, and Spy grabs Scout, pulls him down onto the ground, and holds him fast, eyes darting around for a way out. Already, the air is hot and heavy with fear.

It's the meadow all over again when they jeer once more. "It's a funny one, y'know," The enemy Scout is close enough to have to shout to be heard. Eh sounds so pleased. Despite it being out of hours, despite having no quarrel with them as people, but with their colours, and their loves.

"Faggots go on the fire,"

Scout turns inwards and looks hard at spy, whose face is bereft of any hope. And Scout searches his eyes hard for something, but there is only the tragedy of habit, of having been places like this before. The walls are burning up, and the board on the windows are catching. The place is unstable enough, and beams from the roof creak in age and complaint. When the first comes crashing to the floor, alight with cinders, catching the other side of the rug they're laying on, Scout is pulled to crouching in a hurry, and Spy runs across the burning rooms, and towards the back door. He gives it a tug.

"Merde!" His hand comes away shiny and pink, but worst of all, the door budges not an inch. Scout would throw himself against it to batter it open but the air around it shimmers with heat and glows with the kind of steam that would melt him to paraffin wax.

"That's not going to help you in there." The BLU Scout is laughing, his voice thick with amusement and it chokes the faith Scout has in people until he is left desperate for air and some kind of hope, desperate not to burn to death, because from all the times he has endured this fate, it has always been chronic and agonising and horrific.

Scout turns his face to Spy once more, and looks at him, face white. There is no hope there. There is just basic will to live. To survive. When Scout goes to speak, his mouth is burning with the air and he doubles over, choking, his lungs like tissue-paper, catching fire from the spark of hatred that is burning the sanctuary around him.

"Stay low," Spy whispers to him. His own voice is like glass cracking under the intensity of the temperature. He nurses his hand briefly, but disregards the obvious pain he's in, and leads Scout, still crouching under the thick smoke forming back into the living room.

The voices outside remain, and they jeer still. "You're going to die in there!"

Inside is a vision of hell. The curtains have caught, as with the rug, and there' no way to cross it without burning. The air shimmers. Glass textures the floor. The walls have turned combustion-black. The ashes linger. There is no air. There is no oxygen, only shimmering, only the swelter of nitrogen, and Scout can't get anything into his lungs, he can't breathe, he can't swallow.

Spy crosses most of the way still-crouched, and tries to lead Scout, who has gone stock-still in terror. Above them, the wood groans. "Now, Scout," But the boy is in paralysis. His mouth is open, and his eyes are burning like white dwarf stars. He is bound to the fence all over again. He can't move. He can't be seen but for the diamond trails cutting through his face that is turning to coal-black. "There is no time,"

In this tiniest voice Scout has ever spoken in, he whispers, "I don't want to die."

This isn't like before. This isn't like seeing the darkness, and then the hard lights, and a comrade's face, and the headache of an unscathed body. This is real death, this is that instant where your life flashes before your eyes, that instant death that chars Scout's skin and bleeds him of his fluids and his lungs light up in his chest. He will breathe no more, move no more. His body will become a corpse, his words memories, his actions past tense-...

Spy clamps a hand over the boy's mouth and muffles the noises that emerge. His face is unreadable when he speaks. "And you won't. You won't," The sobs turn to violent coughs. "Come quickly. There's still the front door."

Spy runs across the room, and Scout follows him, but he's slower, and in the half-a-second between them, the wood groans, one gives, the cinders catch on his shirt, but worst of all, the second beam collapses, and floors him, taking Scout out.

He screams out in pain.

Spy turns, and his face loses all colour, but it's already too late and Scout is crying hard now, trying to get out from under it. The cinders are burning deep into the flesh of his thighs, and he is paralysed by the familiar smell of home in all of this chaos: the smell of sunday roast. He falls onto the burnt-out rug, and it engulfs his left side, all up his arms, and even on his face, blood-blistered patches still burning by the time Spy has manages to heave him out from under the seam.

He knows it but he won't say it. Scout can't even walk.

Spy crouches in front of him, coughing violently into his fist, face turning grey from the smoke. He tries to have Scout up once more and speaks so quickly. "You're going to be fine," But there's no Medic, and no medigun, there is no respawn, and Scout can feel his nervous system beginning to fail, he can feel the lightning between each receptor blink into nothingness, and despite the pain he is overcome with numbness.

"It's no use," He mumbles, voice strong with calm. Scout isn't getting any oxygen, and maybe that's the reason he can feel panicked fluttering inside of him that make him nauseous. Vision from his left eye is failing. Spy is still trying to drag him across the cabin, but the fire is getting worse and the smoke is getting thicker and neither of them can see a way out, and Scout whimpers, "It's no use!"

And Spy looks at him, utterly swung open.

"There isn't a way out," Scout's voice is tiny. He slumps onto his good knee, leaning lower to find some kind of air, sucking in breath and letting it back out in hoarse cries of pain. He can damn nearly see the bone in his thigh.

Spy shakes his head. "Don't say that, cheri, we'll be fi-"

Scout shakes his head uselessly. He knows Spy. He knows the man isn't graceful deep down, and that he'll go out kicking and screaming if he has to. For the first time Scout is tired, he's so tried, and if these are his last moments on earth, he doesn't want to spend them in fear. He doesn't want to go into the dark afraid.

Spy lays him down, and tears off part of his shirtsleeve to wrap around Scout's leg. The boy stops him. The room is deafening with the crackle of fire and the soot obscures Scout's memory of the salient but manages a smile. "You're badly hurt-"

Scout shakes his head. "Don't fret," He still manages to smile, and looks up at Spy deliriously. He heard once that before you freeze to death, you begin to feel delirious with warm, and the pain is dying as he becomes more lightheaded. Maybe it's like that. "Don't –don't leave me..."

Spy shakes his head. Grabs Scout's hand and squeezes it. "We'll be fine," He promises. "I'm not going to leave you, but you need-"

Scout closes his eyes for a second. He can feel that hold on him, that tug, to go without a fight, with utter resignation, and he could slip peacefully into death, he really could. "It don't hurt," He says, softly. "It don't hurt no more,"

He feels himself evaporating. Spy's voice is a train-wreck, and he looks to be melting under the firelight. His face is blitzkrieg yellow and the droplets of sweat that sully his face make him appear waxy in composition. He says the worst thing Scout can think of. "It's okay. We're going to get out of here,"

The focus of the world grows softer. His face grows hotter. The dull thrum of pain doesn't ease up, but Scout doesn't mind it. He lifts a hand and smiles, standing up, his entire body wracked with a nervous tremble. He tries to appear nonchalant.

Spy pays the injury no mind. He doesn't notice the plasma-yellow blood thinning down Scout's thigh as he limps towards the other door, half-crouched and coughing up blood. Everything in shining with gold and the pain flickers in and out as his the switchboard of nerves power down, one by one. He keeps telling himself that he'll be fine, that Spy is right, and that they'll get out of there alive.

Scout always thought that when he died, he'd be old and loved and surrounded by grandchildren and a beautiful, sobbing wife and three, happy and grown kids like in the movies. That he would go down swinging his hardest, and hold on long enough to finish all of his business, to have nothing left unsaid when he expired. But here and now, the flames surround him and Spy does not love him and dying shouldn't feel this lonely. Dying shouldn't come this soon, without warning or apology.

But it has.

He treads barefoot across the molten shards of broken glass and treads them, half-carried, to the door that has been barricaded. And Scout watches the very last fragment of light in Spy's eyes go dark and smoky, like a flame sundered, and the man throws himself against the hard wood again and again, but it moves not an inch. It's that look on his face, rooted deep in his eyes, which are now the only think shining through his coal-black visage. You never forget the sense of losing you last hope.

Scout chokes, and in his delirium, he can feel every liquid in his body evaporating from the exposed skin, from the exposed injury. He raises a hand to his blistered skin and drops. He can't even keep himself up, and collapses, coughing up even more dust-black into his hands.

Spy is at his side in a moment, and goes still in shock, finally realising the gravitas of Scout's injuries. "You-…you're hurt,"

He whimpers as Spy tears off his tie and binds it messily. It being red in colour, there's no way to tell how much of his blood stains it, but even after the makeshift tourniquet is bund, he can feel something awfully warm and sticky dribbling down the side of his thigh. The pain is indescribable, and it doesn't lessen. He feels as if he is falling deeper and deeper into an ocean, the air becoming scares, his vision swaying like water.

"I didn't-" Scout shakes his head and manages to smile. "I didn't wanna slow you down,"

It breaks Spy. Scout can see, even if he's young, and he's delirious, that the smile he's staring into is tight, and through the cracks he can see tears spilling like water tearing through a dam. It won't hold for much longer, but it's what he needs. "You fool." Spy whispers. "You needn't have done that…I could've-"

"There ain't any pain," Scout assures him, and leans his head back, smiling serenely. The world feels cooler. He notices not the heavy storm of smoke above him or the smouldering of the walls, but can smell saltwater and hear something off distantly, and suddenly he could be back fifteen years, to the family holiday in Cape Cod. "Man, that breeze is nice," He murmurs, and Spy shakes him.

"Don't-" The man's voice is all pinched. And if this is where Scout goes, he wants to go out peacefully. He doesn't want to scrap like a schoolboy, but go gracefully, head into the dark never doubting he was wanted or loved. "Stay with me," Spy is pleading with him, but he's addressing the wrong man. Scout's eyes flicker, but never open fully, and he manages a small laugh.

"I always did, y'know." He murmurs. "Even when ya didn't want me,"

"What?"

Scout smiles a watery smile. Spy's outline and eyes are clear, but everything else has become soft and irrelevant. His eyes are not dissimilar to Sniper's. "You remember-" He coughs again, yacking up black blood onto his torn shirt. "You remember the first time I won us a fight?"

Spy is unable to speak, or his composure will break and the love and rage inside of him, the likes of which are too powerful to be contained, will burst forth and Scout will see him cry. He remains strong.

There's a small crackling noise, and he realises belatedly, that Scout is trying to laugh. "I wanted to impress you. To show that I was…was useful." The boy swallows. His own face is clear from tears, and the liquid from the wound has soaked through the tie. There's nothing else that Spy can do for him but listen. "An' everybody else was congratulatin' me. Tellin' me I was-…"

Oh Christ. Crucified Christ, he looks so fragile, his arms thin and brittle and his eyes sunken and dark. "But you-" The boy raises a trembling, bony finger. "You were starin' at Sniper. I figured it was 'cause you hated him." The boy sounds so damn hurt, even now, after all of this time, and Spy realises that maybe these nonsensical comments and stories Scout tell have been earned. That he means something to the boy. Right now, he is the only comfort and joy the boy has. "Everybody else was lookin' at me, an' he was starin' right back at you…"

Scout leans his head back and breathes out everything he regrets. "Ain't that a beautiful sunset?" He remarks, eyes closed, voice raspy and pathetic. "Ain't it beautiful?"

A fat, hot tear cuts Spy's resolve right down the middle, and through gritted teeth, he manages to keep his voice in a straight line. "Yes, cheri, it's beautiful,"

Scout laughs aloud, eyes still closed. "Couldn't you just die here?" And then, much smaller. "Couldn't you die happy here?"

Off in the distance, hope comes through the desperate screams of a foreign tongue. "Helfen!" Scout doesn't even rouse, consumed by the ecstasy, but Spy raises his head, unsure if he is hallucinating his own escape. "Feuer!"

Spy leaves the boy rambling about the breeze in Cape Cod, and staggers blindly through the thick fog. The fire in the heart is dwindling, and discarded besides it is the poker. He wraps his sleeve around his hand and grabs the handle, feeling it burn right away, but knowing that Scout is suffering worse and suffering harder.

The last window on his side of the room is boarded like the rest, but hasn't caught. The room is hot and heavy with disaster, and he crawls towards it, gritting his teeth against the agony of the white-hot metal in his grip. Hard and fast, he tries to chip at the wood, and it splits, but not nearly enough to make any real progress. The coll air is stark on his black face and he chokes, dropping the fire-poker and trying to worsen the hole he has left in the wood. It is no bigger than a grape.

And out in the snow, things are worse.

Medic is sprinting down the top of the clearing, stumbling, desperate. Despite him being only half-an-inch tall in the distance, Spy can hear him screaming. Even above the roar of the flames and the flickering smoulder, he can heart the tragedy. Medic is not alone, and Heavy is following after him. There is not a hint of BLU.

"Doctuer!" Spy shouts for him. He needs to get their attention. To prove their alive. A flare, a signal, a sound, anything. But Scout is out cold and from across the room he can see the boy blanching, the life dripping from his flesh. If he were conscious, he would sob in delight, because Medic's heart is like a stallion, and Scout loves it more when it's broken. "Docteur, we are-"

As Medic nears the house, he is tugged back by his Heavy, who pulls hard, face just as white, distress reading as clearly on the volume of his face. "Doktor, no-"

And in all his days at RED, Spy has never seen Medic cry.

But now he is a train-wreck of sobs, fighting with this inhuman strength, battering against Heavy;'s enough arm around him, throwing punches and battering his legs wildly, assaulting the man in his native tongue. All the while, fat, shameful tears make his protests martyrdom, and Heavy just takes it. He remains still and keeps Medic from running into the flames. Because if Scout dies right now, to the boy's bones the Doctor will crawl.

He still fights heavy, spluttering his tears like an angel choking on it's own halo.

"Lass mich gehen, sie wertlos narr!" Medic snarls. He has no medigun with him, not a friendly drop of anything medicinal, but he has his hands, and this love, the likes of which terrify spy, and sadden Heavy. "Ich kann nicht einfach weggehen! Ich muss - ... Ich habe ihn zu retten..."

Spy throws himself against the cheap wood but it doesn't budge and inch and singes the fabric on his shoulders. He shouts again on a broken voice and a broken soul. "Doctuer, we are in here!"

In a second, Medic goes from fighting to a mess. He collapses into the snow, and tries to stagger forward, still held back by Heavy. "Is he with you?! Spy, sie müssen ihn raus-..."

Spy sucks in the small amount he can get to. Across the room, Scout's mumblings have turned to silence and his breathing is so slight that it may as well not even be occurring. Is it too late? Jesus, what if he lives, and Scout dies here, so young, with so much left to see and hear and experience? How could Spy go on living with Medic's eyes on him, with Sniper staring at him, but with what behind his eyes?

"You 'ave to hurry!" He shouts. "He is dying." So is Spy. But he doesn't say that. Somehow, it doesn't seem very important.

And Medic goes to stagger forward again, weak and nervous and crying, Jesus, that grim sarcasm he usually wears is in tatters now. But as he rises, a large hand is pressed over his heart, and it stops him. "Stay, Doktor."

Heavy makes towards the burning building like a man torn.

The smoke is only getting thicker, and Spy has to move fast across the room to avoid being caught like Scout was, under the falling debris of the deteriorating cabin. The boy is still out old on the floor, where Spy left him for just a moment. His face is still oily with tears and youthful. Despite the world becoming distant and soft and faraway to Spy, too, he manages to slip his arms around the boy's molten body that even feels like paraffin wax, and hold him. He feels so tried, but keeps telling himself, it will be over soon, that he will survive this He can survive this. He says not a word about Scout.

On the other wise of the room, there is an enormous crash, and harsh winter wind makes an attempt to part the veil of fog. An enormous shadow paints the fire a darker shade of tragedy and Medic's cries comes together with the crackling of the flames to create the theme song of the ailing. Heavy moves fast across the room. His eyes are cast downwards and when he sees Scout out cold, he moves even faster.

In a swift movement, the man throws Scout over one shoulder, and Spy over the other.

The next thing Scout recalls is the snow. The vast white Snow, and then somebody's coat. The cold cuts through him suddenly, and he shivers violently. He thinks about his mother. About Cape Cod. Breaths in. breathes out. The snow is so vast. In the night, it's so blue, and behind him ignorance burns down his only scarp of heaven, the snow is so blue, blue like the ocean, blue like Medic;s eyes, like Mercy.

Medic carries him to the barracks. The man is stripped down the his waistcoat, trying desperately to keep Scout alive, and conscious. At points, he is spoken to, or maybe he speaks, and at some point, he blacks out. The thing that stays with him with much clarity is Medic's wordless gaze, still wrecked with tears and hopelessness. Medic watches him with this peculiar expression. Scout looks back, damn near smiles, but Medic's eyes seem fixed on something behind Scout, something macabre that has already drained the blood from his face, and the light from his eyes.

Scout remains still, to afraid to turn and see. He knows, of course, there is nothing there.

They stare at eachother from what feels like miles away. Just looking, which is more than words can speak or touches can feel. Scout isn't sure how it ends, he doesn't remember. Maybe Medic looks away first, or maybe he passes out. But in his memory, they just remain there, looking at eachother forever.

-

Scout is surprised when he wakes. He had been dreaming of Cape Cod, and of the sunsets there. The only deep red in the sky of his eyeline is the blood-sullied shirt he is sleeping. It hasn't been changed, and while there are holes burnt and torn and burnt through the fabric, and stains that make the fibres heavy, the skin beneath remains snowy and smooth, unscathed by the fires.

Scout is glad to be alive.

His eyes open a little wider, expecting to be blinded by the sheer lights in the Infirmary, but finding only a milky lamp on a bedside cabinet. He is in somebody else's quarters, but from the choice of decoration, cannot tell right away. There's nothing superfluous or indulgent. Still, the bed itself is comfortable enough, so Scout sits up.

He just sits in silence for what has to be ten minutes before anything happens. His face is hot with the same of putting his team through hell, and the shame of being persecuted for daring to love others. And he's so caught up in the revelations of recent, of his own values, that he jumps when he's joined.

In a croaky voice, the first thing Scout says to Medic is, "Where's Spy?"

The older man makes certain not to give him eye contact when he speaks. Medic goes to the other side of the room, to the RED standard desk, and shuffles around in a drawer until he pulls out a stethoscope. "He's having lunch," Is the only things Medic says. Not a word on his condition, or implied recovery. Scout owes them both for saving his life, and is sorry to both, more than he could say. But he doesn't think he deserves punishment.

Medic walks over to him. His standoffishness has returns, and he stands just as straight as he did, and his face is just as hard as it was when they first met. Confused, Scout looks at him. He made him cry. HE reduced the man's steel resolve, one forged of practise spanning years, into frantic tears. Medic is looking back, and behind his eyes is this childish fear. It disappears when he swallows, and puts the stethoscope into his ears, pushing Scout's back with a gentle palm. The metal is cold against his spine, but Scout doesn't complain.

"Take a deep breath in." Scout does. "And out," his breathing shudders. After all of that, and he finds it ironic that he has the temerity to be cold. All the while, neither of them look at eachother. "Repeat,"

It doesn't take more than ten seconds. And Medic drapes the earpiece around his neck and finally looks at Scout and they could kiss then, Jesus Christ they could kiss then and Scout could affirm this belief that he is wanted, that this means something, and that even if he doesn't speak German, he knows that Medic really means when he speaks. They could close the gap between them and then they'd be somewhere, and the silence wouldn't matter.

Medic says, "Lift up your shirt, bitte."

The thing that is the most funny and horrifying is that Scout never gives his pregnancy a second thought. He does have to; so far, nothing has changed, and everybody treats him the same. The funny and awful thing is that he hasn't cared too much. But when Medic says that all he can think of is about the smoke igniting his lungs about the flurry of movement within him. He can't feel anything at that moment, and he starts to get choked up, because what if he never feels anything again? Scout becomes nauseous thinking about death inside of him, but worst of all, thinking about failing Medic, who dares love him better.

But Scout doesn't say that. Instead, he lifts up his shirt, and shuts his eyes. What falls out his mouth is, "I'm sorry." When he looks up, Medic's face is focused, by there is the ghost of a smile. "I didn't mean to hurt it or anythin'-"

Medic shakes his head again. "I don't care,"

"What..?" The signals are mixed. The Medic that Scout envisions isn't like this. The man he thinks he knows is austere, and more than a little cold, and would put the world before Scout. Yet here, he's proven wrong. "I thought you were upset because you wanted-"

Medic looks surprised. "Your version of me is monstrous," he murmurs. "I was upset because I care about you."

Scout coughs. "I care about you, too-" He doesn't get to finish his half-hearted sentiment because Medic consumes him completely in his arms and holds so damn tight, like he's afraid that Scout will dissolve. The man's breathing is the kind of ragged that suggests nerves: he doesn't so this much. Nobody ever knows how he feels, because he doesn't display it, and to have Medic being this direct means something. Only very few have earned this before.

That's when Medic kisses him. He kisses him, and thumps him on the chest with a limp wrist. "Don't you ever do that to me again, saukerl." and his voice is like a tremolo. Scout barely has the audacity to look at him, overwhelmed by the sudden profession of love, or lust, or something.

"I won't," he mumbles, in a small voice. That isn't good enough.

"Not 'you won't'. You can't." The man swallows. He leaves the sermon there For a second, he looks as if he'll say something else, but never manages it, so he droops next to Scout and holds him close. Scout likes it fine, this closeness. He could stay there, safe in the knowledge that whatever he dared to dream would have to fight medic off first. Safe in the knowledge that he is welcome here.

Despite what Medic has said, the man lays a hand on Scout's stomach anyway, and keeps it there. The gesture seems defeats the purpose of his speech, but Scout doesn't mind. Who isn't a paradox at heart?

Medic might be half-asleep by the time Scout speaks, flinching in the sheets, a hopeful smile colouring his features. He asks, "D'you feel that?"

In the next room, there are flowers for the guy. There are two friends making a mistake.

"It isn't over," Says the first.

And the second says. "It has to be."


	10. X

The plan was to play hard to get.

Scout never went about giving himself away easy, has never gone out to sea for just anybody –can you really see him in a pair of fishnets? Yeah, the plan was to play it cool, because Scout had never been anybody's anything.

But he's got lips like wasabi. Makes Scout wince every time they kiss, and the taste lingers there like a curse. Makes him wish he was more colourful, more intelligent, more beautiful, makes him wish he could be more. And despite him thinking this, despite him feeling all of this, he doesn't say any of that.

And when Sniper says, "I think we should see eachother a little less,"What comes out of Scout's mouth isn't love like oxygen, or any kind of protest. What comes out of his mouth is this totally-meek-and-out-of-character 'sure'.

He sits in his room after his shower, exhausted, and thinks about it, utterly bemused. What the hell does that mean? 'See eachother a little less' –less than what? And why? A silver rivulet drops down his spine and makes him shudder, but goddamn, his face is burning with crimson. Sniper's just got it backwards, that's all.

That's all it is. Or maybe Scout is just playing it too easy. Maybe if he plays all coy and cold for a couple of days, the problem will fix itself. He should have stuck to the plan.

Down the stairs and across the hall, Sniper's door is locked. He can hear the breeze, meaning that the window has been left open. It makes Scout wish he could jimmy a lock like most of his brothers could jimmy a car, because he's got all of these questions and he really needs to see somebody. He really needs to see Sniper.

Nobody around the base has seen him. Anybody that Scout can find –granted, that isn't everybody- shrugs and gives him no helpful word of guidance. Down in the infirmary, Medic is too caught up in a game of Othello with his surgically-attached Heavy to be of any interest. And Spy is nowhere to be found, as allusive as usual. If Scout had the energy for a chase, it would be at least some fun.

The locker room is just as disappointing, empty any of life. Scout takes a packet of cigarettes from Sniper's locker for his troubles and sighs, heading out. As he does, his reflection moving catches his eye, and Scout finds it so unexpected that he turns, and surveys himself. Not out of vanity, but simply out of this abstract desire to see how he's doing.

The boy in the mirror is a queer little bird, that's for sure. Scout thinks about a boy of the same name who had this winning smile, like something off of a baseball card, who looked fresh-faced and ready to charm the world. Whatever happened to him is a mystery, because the boy in the mirror is slouched and tired and very pale. Despite the purposefully large shirt, he can't help but notice the definite change in shape. He looks like a bleached gargoyle, repeatedly leering at men. Of course Sniper wants to see him less. It's the next-best option from not seeing Scout at all.

It's like being taught a lesson in the worst kind of way. Just as the world is looking at him differently, Scout sees it changed. The altercations haven't been overnight, but it strikes him so suddenly that he can no longer bear to look. He takes the set of master-keys from Spy's own locker, and lights up as he head backs to the other man's door.

The saddest part is that these men's sheets smell like the only thing Scout has ever been good at. Maybe that's supposed to be funny, but Scout knows that he is the only practical in this entire situation.

Only, when Scout thinks about it like hat, it doesn't bring him to this all-vintage misery, despite how good it looks on him. No, it makes him furious. Obviously, Sniper has it backwards if he thinks he can back out quietly, if he thinks he can leave, no contracts obliged, no strings attached. It isn't right to mess with Scout's heart like that –no, it isn't fair.

Maybe Scout is fickle, and maybe he likes to sleep around, but he never deceived anybody. Right now, Scout feels pretty cheated. He throws the door open when the lock clicks with great gusto, hearing the handle meet the wall with a dull ring.

The room inside is plain. A lamp sits on the bedside table next to a framed family photograph, and there are a few changes of clothes piled on the dresser. A few books are on the edge of the bed, and a bow sits in the corner, a traditional recurve that stands erect with the tension in the string. All of this is in a place Scout isn't welcome, and he isn't happy about that.

Sniper must always have him: less like a birthmark, and more like a scar.

The first thing Scout seeks to destroy is the bow. He takes out his pocket knife and severs the bowstring, watching it wilt. He whittles the fletching off of the arrows, and he tears through the pages of every book, watching them catch on the frosty air like A5 snowflakes. In his determination to destroy, he throws the lamp against the wall, and swats the photo from the table. The room becomes colourful as he throws the clothes like a ticker-tape parade.

It takes so much out of him, all of his bitterness and fury that he flops down besides the bed, on his knees, a little out of breath, but mostly conflicted. As satisfying as it is to blindly destroy, what he truly wants to eradicate isn't here, in Sniper's things, or even on the volume of Sniper's face, but something much deeper, and more difficult to destroy.

Worse than that: part of what Scout really wants to remove is himself.

Jesus, the world wears on, and he's tired. He's so tired. Reaching down despite the jagged glass, the lifts the photograph from the floor and places it back on its perch with a shaky hand. Bits of his blood colour what's left of the glass, but does nothing to mar the happiness the photograph captures. Scout can see traces of Sniper in his parents, just small things. The man between them is younger than Scout has ever known him, but the only differences are subtler. A stronger tan, softer features. Visible eyes.

It's funny how much more natural; he looks in his proper context. Despite the heaving on his chest, and the blood on Scout's fingers, he stares for a while, and even manages a smile. He runs a fingertip over the picture and tries to see himself in that picture. Maybe one day, there'll be another just like it, but with bolder colours, and you'll be able to find Scout's best features mixed with Sniper's to make somebody even more beautiful.

The conflict is that Medic is the only one who actually wants a kid.

Scout doesn't like to think about it, but it's getting harder and harder to pretend, and to ignore. Just weeks ago, it seems, he would wake up and get dressed and plain forget that he was pregnant. Jesus, those days are long gone. These thoughts scare him, so he draws himself up onto the bed and curls up slowly. He can't think if he's sleeping. He can't consciously feel, and Scout would rather dream the worst of his life twice over then have to think about what he's going to do.

So Scout closes his eyes and his breathing comes easy. He sleeps.

When Sniper finds him, some hours later, with this queer half-smile and an oddly-familiar, exotic perfume on his neck, he freezes in the doorway. Scout hears him swear, and watches him start to fold his clothes back into the dresser. All the while, he doesn't say anything to Scout. The broken bowstring is removed, and he sets it aside carefully, ignoring the mess made of his arrows. Eventually, he comes to sit besides Scout, and picks up the photograph, wiping a stray smear of blood and testing it against is lips. He turns to Scout.

In a second, he has one of the boy's hands, and inspects the superficial cuts from the glass. "What've you done to yourself?"He asks.

Scout doesn't look at him when he speaks. "Do you love me?"

For somebody usually blindsided by questions of an emotional nature, Sniper looks reasonably calm. He considers it in-depth, and then reaches a hand down to stroke the boy's hair. "Ask me again tomorrow,"

So they fall into silence. Scout has nothing else to say, for once. Well, he has many things to say, but none of them are worst saying right now. He wriggles under the covers and pretends that he's forgotten Sniper's request to see him a little less.

"Are you-" Sniper begins. Scout interrupts him with honesty.

"Please don't make me sleep alone,"

He doesn't.

Men, in Scout's experience, are very easy to seduce. At least, his men, for they are carnal and carnivorous with lust and loneliness. Women, however, are no such thing.

They still make Scout nervous.

Miss Pauling works for Administration, and is the teams' only go-between. She is a literal and metaphorical mankiller, a decent shot, and a good woman for a crisis. She likes gun magazines and to be successful. Scout calls her 'Miss P'.

She makes him very nervous.

In all of Scout's vast sexual experience to call upon, he wouldn't know how to go about seducing her, or even if he could. Women, in their majority, are soft and weak and they like to need a man: to depend on one. Those are the easy ones. Scout can talk their clothes off in ten minutes. All it takes is willingness to play a part. Yes, Scout likes those women fine.

Miss P isn't one of those women. She seems to believe only her own convictions, and it serves her well enough. When Scout had first met her, and used all of his best lines, she had said nothing, but completed the extent of her job, and nothing more. She appears cold, and Scout has to wonder if there are ways to warm up girls like that.

But when she finds him in the Rec room on a Thursday afternoon, all he can stammer is a pathetic, "Afternoon to ya, Miss P.'.

Her face is partially hidden by a clipboard. She flashes him a smile that lasts exactly as long as is deemed professional. "Hullo, Mister Weiss-"

Scout smiles to her nervously. He moves the plate from his lap onto the table besides him an stands. His Ma told him once that it's polite to do that for a lady. "Y'can call me Scout if ya like."

She adjusts the paper on her clipboard and nods to him. "That's nice of you, Mister Weiss." But the implications of her tone suggest the opposite. With a loveless look, she raises a delicate hand. "If I could just have a moment of your time to discuss legalities. I can assure you, I'll only take a minute,"

Scout wants to say something witty and clever, but he knows he looks terrible and probably comes off just as badly. He needs a win, though. Just a small victory. Get her to giggle or something, anything, and the world will feel all the righter. But what he says is, "I ain't done nothin' wrong, right?"

When Miss Pauling shakes her head, her hair swishes slightly. Her laugh is sweet and short, but as soon as it's over she looks as if she's never laughed a moment in her life. It seems to fall right from her face. "I'll just need to review some paperwork with you, concerning your decisions about your leave." She tears a neat form from her clipboard and hands it to Scout with this cold practise. "We have some legislative concerns, seeing as RED doesn't actually have a set policy on maternity leave,"

Scout goes redder than his shirt. He's pretty he'll combust from shame, and it stings so deeply that he wants to dive under the good foot of snow outside and only emerge when he has found some dignity to cling to. Now there's no hope of a victory, because Scout is fire-truck red and searching for something to say that won't make him sound foolish, but the entire situation is foolish.

How could he forget that medical records are sent to Administration? Miss P has probably laughing her way to the Administrator for weeks now.

Still, whatever Miss Pauling really thinks is unreadable from her straight face. "You should also name a respective partner in writing. There's no need to be embarrassed, Mist –Scout," she flashes him that loveless smile once more.

Of course, there is a definite need to be embarrassed. Scout shrugs. He is unable to do little else. The silence that descends upon them is Scout's fault. He doesn't have a plan for anything. As far as he'd concerned, it doesn't seem to be his business, despite it being his body.

Miss Pauling makes a noise of expectancy and nods. "I suspected you would be unprepared concerning the matter," She says, not unkindly. "Medic was insistent on you keeping your residency with RED." She starts to write things down in that neat cursive girls have. The form Scout has means nothing to him. So long as nobody is calling up his Ma, he'll agree to most stipulations. "He also suggested that you should be removed from field work in around seven weeks-"

That last part catches his ear and he stiffens. "Now, wait a minute, Miss P."he says, holding up his hands. "If I ain't out cappin' points, what is it you're gonna have me doin'?"

She smiles this coy little smiles and pretends to read her form for just a second. "Desk work, most likely. You'll have to be doing something to continue you residency." At Scout's reaction, she holds up a hand. "It won't be anything strenuous, I can assure you," Another piece of paper comes his way, "Would you sign this?"

Scout signs it sloppily. "An' what about after that?" Truth be told, he doesn't want to know. So far, he has avoided the topic of 'that' entirely, even with Medic, and he'd like to keep it that way. Miss Pauling misses that implicit request.

"You'll have ten days or so after birth to put your affairs in order. A replacement for you will be employed temporarily until such time as you pass your physical,"Scout recoils from the words a little, upset not only by the idea of being replaced, but also the idea of being useless to the team, no more a rake and no more a bachelor. He doesn't even know what the hell he's going to be doing with the kid afterwards, either. "And sign here, please,"

He moves the pen carelessly.

She seems more pleased by the paperwork than the actual human interactions. Rising, Miss Pauling gives him a frighteningly strong handshake. "Thankyou for your time," She says, and sidesteps around the couch, before moving off. "Send a document to Administrations if your plans change." She nods to him. "I suppose I'll see you in Teufort."

"You, too." Scout says, distantly. He stays sitting and stares ahead for a very long time.

In the other room, they are playing poker.

When Scout was eleven, he remembers going up into the attic to find a flashlight for his mother, but instead, finding something else.

His brother, Anthony, was six years older than him, and was stuck to a girl Scout didn't know like a poisonous dart. See, at the time, he knew both that he didn't want girls, but also that Anthony already had a girl: a pretty blonde who was kind enough to pay him a little attention. Well, wherever she had been wasn't crossing Anthony's mind or his lips, too occupied. His hands were too full. He shouted out when he saw Scout half-way into the attic, staring, at a complete loss.

And later, he had explained to Scout that he was just trying to cheer up another lady-friend, that was all, and that his girlfriend didn't need to know how nice and obliging he'd been. Scout was told that what he'd seen was a good thing, and that it wasn't hurting anybody.

He knows when he's being lied to.

Scout can taste a different kind of cigarette in Sniper's mouth when they kiss. He can see somebody else's smile in the man's eyes, and another's laugh in his voice. There is a strange perfume on his neck, and thighs, and Scout would be willing to bet that if he dusted Sniper's precious little heart for fingerprints, they would not find his.

They smoke in the evening, after a quick fuck over-the-covers, lights turned down low –low –low enough that Scout can just make out these eyes in the darkness. It's not nice, and usually that's just how he likes it, but tonight his embarrassing admission is that he likes it when they're nice. He likes it when the composure breaks and he's shown just what this means.

And after, when they smoke, Scout stares at him, seeing everything, but nothing, at the same time. He waves a hand.

"What's that on your neck?" His voice is quiet. Sniper clamps a hand blindly over the spot, right over it. The yellow indicates it's age.

"Oh, that," Sniper mumbles. "You did that,"

He knows when he's being lied to.

Alone at the edge of the world is exactly like the feeling of this place.

The base at Coldfront has no television. It has no radio, no records to play. There is no entertainment. Near the end of the month, the card games are growing as tiresome as the snow, and it's a miracle any of them have patience anymore.

There are no towns or villages nearby. Only RED regulation rations. What should be coffee may well be tea, equal in bitterness and tastelessness. The food is even more meagre. When a fight between poker players erupts at least once an hour, and grumbling members of the same team start sending each other through respawn, Scout is at his limit.

He's sitting on the sill of the window, as he has much taken to, watching the wastelands shudder white with snow and warming his own hands on a cup of something. It might well just be sour tapwater, but it least it has the grace of being warm. He's dreadfully boring, but having complained about it so much already has bored him.

True to his word, Sniper sees him much less, and when he does, it's usually accidental. The man is as elusive as he is stubborn. Of course, Spy appears when he needs to, and it's only ever circumstantial, but at least it's quick, at least it's somebody to do. Scout doesn't know how to play chess.

He feels guilty about smoking cigarettes, so he just rolls them instead, and instead of a cough in the morning, he has at least thirty neat little roll-ups. Since there's no town nearby, he's making a pretty killing off of Solder, and even sniper, though their transactions are small, and his payment isn't usually in legal tender.

He's rolling another with his last whisper of tobacco when a scarf muffles his mouth and covers his eyes and the half-cigarette comes apart like chaos in his lap. Grumbling, he pulls it out of his face and glares up at a smiling pair of eyes.

"Get your coat, Mausi."

Scout doesn't appreciate the ridiculous endearments that Medic gives him, or the destruction of his last good cigarette, and folds his arms, chin jutting out in defiance despite Medic's good nature, for once. "I ain't goin' out there, pally. Why don't'cha ask Heavy?"

Medic doesn't even react, and there's this challenge on his face that says Scout will have to try harder to get a rise from him. "You talk too much. Get your coat,"

There's no arguing with him tonight. So he gets his jacket and his gloves and heads out into the bitter eternal winter, following Medic sluggishly. He drags his feet in the snow, and squints at the vastness that dissolves fast into darkness. The lights of the base get smaller and smaller behind him until Scout feels completely alone.

A hand closes around his, and for a second Scout sees blue eyes and imagines another man. But cracks of frost mar the lenses of Medic's spectacles and their fingers aren't locked like before. Like Medic is too big for him. He sighs.

"I get paid to freeze my ass out here for seven hours a day, y'know," He mutters, half-wading in the snow. It's up to his shins and it will seep into his socks soon enough. Medic doesn't have to worry, because he's got nice, thick boots and it probably snows all year round in Germany –or was that Russia? "This better be worth my while,"

He barks out a laugh. "Stop your complaining," He says, and swings their hands."Isn't it beautiful?" They stare across the vastness of lilac snow that is being consumed by the advancing darkness, and though Scout loathe to admit it, it is. Of course, he can't just say that.

He jams his fists into his pockets and shrugs. "It sure beats burning' to death," and then Medic is standing very straight, rigid with tension. That glazed-over look in his eyes, the one as soft as nostalgia, hardens to something else. "Were you scared I was gonna die?"

Medic barks a laugh again, but it's sadder, and softer. "What a perfectly ridiculous notion," He sniffs, and it sets a smile on Scout's face, despite the chattering of his teeth.

"You were cryin'," He says, softly. "I ain't never seen a man cry before,"That's true. Or maybe he just hasn't seen a man lose something that really means something him. Scout wonders what his father looked like. He wonders if, one day, other men will cry over him. It's a strange feeling, being worth something to somebody. Now Medic is looking all serious, so Scout nudges him."S'okay. I was cryin', too."

"I wasn't crying," Medic grumbles, kicking at the snow. "You're mistaken, Kleiner, it was merely the smoke," But Scout's laughing at him, and Medic's laughing too, this defeated, happy laugh. It's contentedness rooted in the chest, and it's nice to see Medic happy. It's not gleeful, but Scout isn't sure if he's capable of glee.

The man looks down at him and lets out this tiny little sigh. "It's quite lovely," He remarks, and Scout looks away quickly, hoping that his slight blush will be concealed by the shadow of his cap. He licks his bottom lip nervously and nods out at the snow.

"Yeah," he says, quickly. "Yeah it is. Does it snow much in Germa-"

Medic chuckles softly. "I wasn't talking about the snow, Dummkopf."

It's sweet, so Scout has to roll his eyes and sigh exasperatedly, just to be on the safe side. He glances over his shoulder and can barely see base in this distance. In front of him, the ground is sloping downwards a little, and ahead of him, Medic is standing on top of a frozen bank, the window adding to the drama of his coat. He smiles when Scout joins him.

"But yes," As they goose-step down the bank, he takes Scout's hand again. "It snows very much in winter. When I was very young, I remember ice-skating," That nice softens returns to his face as he recalls. "I remember schneeballschlachten in the schoolyard," His voice goes soft and trails off. But Scout likes hearing him talk about his home.

It helps him think of his. When Scout thinks about home, now, when he thinks about Boston it all seems so small and silly. And maybe he isn't too big for Boston. Maybe it's too small for him. Maybe he doesn't belong there anymore. Taking with Miss Pauling made Scout realise that he couldn't go home for Christmas. He couldn't see his Ma, or any of his brothers, and he would be alone for the first year ever.

He holds onto Medic's hand a little too tight. But it's okay.

He murmurs, "D'you ever think about going back?"

Now Medic is looking on at Scout with these patient eyes, but no response ready. He never talks about his childhood, or his home, or his past. And maybe they're painful and best left unspoken and unstirred, but Scout want to know, then and there.

Medic shrugs. "I'm going to stay with Ada over Christmas." He says, with that slight tremble of excitement. "I haven't been back since we left." Scout would be lying if he said he wasn't the slightest bit envious. That Medic can go where he wishes. That there are people who would have him. The hand around his squeezes. "You're welcome to join me, you know. Unless you have other plans."

He laughs a hard, harsh, angry laugh and shakes his head. "I don't think I'm gonna be showin' my face to my Ma anytime soon,"

It takes the wind out of Medic's sails and he droops forward a little, crestfallen. "I suppose not," He mumbles, and then leads Scout down the steep bank. Then he has lost his traction and is wobbling nervously like a fawn. It's precious. Beneath him is the murky glass of frozen water. Medic damn near glides close to him, and pulls them out further. "You'll have to tell her soon enough,"

The ice is incredibly smooth and in one movement, Scout feels as if he's going to go over on his ass. He glares up at Medic. "Like hell I do," He grumbles."It raises more questions than it answers,"

With ease and practise, Medic moves over to him, and leads them further across the ice. Scout imagines how deep and cold the inky-black water is. He imagines how deep the ice must be, and how much force it would take to break. "Is this gonna break?"

Medic laughs at him. He drops onto his knees and then turns so that he's lying on the ice, looking up at the stars. "It's not going to break, mein spatzi, I can promise you,"

Sulkily, Scout drops down next to him, and cuddles up close. Not because he's sentimental or anything, Goddamn, but because it's cold and Medic is very soft and very warm, and the ice they're lying on is bitter with cold. They fall into a nice silence, and Medic's heart rings through Scout's ears. He raises his head slightly.

"I think I heard it crackin-"

Medic rolls his eyes. "Goodness, it's not going to crack. It's as thick as you are," He laughs, and they settle into a quiet again. It's nice, for the most part, with Scout inhaling Medic's scarf just to get warm. The ice is lovingly dry, and it's not too bad of a place to consider staying. Above them, white skies have dissolved into nothingness and the stars are out in their multitudes.

"I wish I'd'a known you when I was a little kid," Scout says quietly. Medic looks down at him in the darkness. "They used to do some awful shit to boys like me. It would'a been nice to have somebody on my side," But then Scout lets out a laugh. "You really hated me when you met me, though."

Medic makes an elaborate pantomime of innocence. "Could you blame me?"

Scout rolls onto his back as if reading the stars. He remembers their first conversation in Technicolor, despite everything else being black-and-white. It fills him with this odd twinge to remember it. "I made you promise to make no jokes about my name."

"I didn't know any jokes about your name,"

Jesus, everything has changed so much since then. Scout thinks he'd hate to meet the kid everybody else had to. Thought he was something fierce, or ten times smarter than he really was. He doesn't feel as young as he is. "'You don't know a man until you've walked around in his shoes'? Harper Lee?"

Medic shifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. He looks content enough to die, and though Scout likes that sentiment fine, there's still so much he has to get done. "I don't know who that was. Should I?"

Scout sits up, frowning at him furiously. "Harper Lee? To Kill a Mockingbird? I read it in highschool. Everybody did,"

"I haven't read it," It doesn't register with Medic how basic that is. Or how obvious. Scout's copy was a torn-up hand-me-down that had been consecutively ignored by an entire family. He got a clout around the head for ready 'that sappy shit', and was promptly informed that women shouldn't be writing books, so why the hell was he reading one?

"Man," Scout leans back, and furrows back closer to Medic. The man has thick, strong arms and he has a real presence. Not like Sniper, with his velvet tread, or even Spy, the man like a column of smoke, coming and going in plain sight as he seemed to wish it. "Man, that's crazy," Scout says. "It's really famous. I'd get you my copy, but-" He swallows. "But it's at home,"

He knows he can't return. At least, not for a long time.

So the arms around him tighten and Medic speaks into his hair softly. "Wherever you intend to stay for Christmas, know that you're welcome with me," And it's a nice sentiment. Scout pictures Germany to be much like Coldfront, with all of this snow, but there would be people, and laughter, and fires and presents, and not a hint of the NSDAP. But it's never as good as he imagines. Nothing is.

"I don't want to go to Europe." He shrugs, and then laughs bitterly. "I failed my only semester in French,"

But Medic doesn't give up that easy, unconvinced by Scout's words. "German is very simple." He offers, and scout waves a hand as if to swat away what's being said to him.

"No, I didn't want to learn, y'know?"He sighs, and stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket. There's little room left in them, what with the jacket stretches already. "In highschool, I jus'figured, when am I goin' to Europe? I couldn't even afford my rent in America! What the hell did I want to go to France for?" Not once does Medic interrupt, despite how whimsical and short-sighted and shallow it must sound. Well, Scout knows he's shallow. By this point, they all do.

"Where will you go for Christmas?"

That's the future. Scout is trapped in the now, and he likes it fine. He shrugs. "I always wanted to see Australia."

There is a very hard pause that says things both of them wouldn't dare actually vocalise. Medic just looks down at the ice, and speaks plainly. "Oh," Is all he says. So Scout punches him in the arm and grumbles.

"Jesus Christ, Doc, if I was gonna leave you, I think I'd'a done it by now,"

It's the first real smile Medic gives him all night.

Scout's memory isn't perfect. Maybe he falls asleep right there on the lake, or maybe he did actually walk back to base, but he wakes in his own bed, with arms wound around the train-wreck of his body like police-tape erected hastily. Medic keeps lips on Scout's neck, and hands on his stomach and they both know what they're about.

See, Scout's got Medic pegged. He has them all pegged, these sad men with their sad lives, trying to love their crooked neighbour before their crooked neighbour frightens the love out of them. They're not existential or wonderful or even good. They're not concepts, they're just people, in the same way Scout is just a person, and in the same way there's a chapel in a hospital. He knows none of them will save him.

And yet he wants, more than anything, to be proven wrong.


	11. XI

There's a distinct difference between pushing somebody's buttons, and pushing them too far.

That's what Engineer says anyway. See, even out of context, the weight of it carries.

Scout knows how to push people's buttons. He knows how to get what he wants. At least, he used to. Used to be able to play Medic like a cheap violin, have him singing testaments to high heaven, have him bleeding sunshine in the concert of a smile –yeah, Scout used to play him like that. Used to play them all like that, but it was different with Medic. He had love like a crowbar, and wedged it beneath unliftable objects, watching Medic break his back, smiling the whole time.

But every man has his breaking point. Even those blinded by love, or by jealousy.

It's the night before the last day at Coldfront. Not that has persuaded the snow or the bitter winds to let up at all, but the thought of returning to Teufort in October, the most temperate weather of all year, has stirred some enthusiasm in the teams. The last day's battle is always bloody and nasty and personal. It's also shorter. But instead of celebrating a return home, RED spend the evening packing.

Scout can't bear to be alone with the memory of 'Scott F' once more, and fumbles his way down the darkening stairs and close, grey-walled corridors towards the Infirmary. Beneath the snowfall of A4 papers, Medic sits, looking very melancholic. There is a bird on his shoulders, slightly rosy with the blood of others faded into it's feathers. When he hears Scout, it takes him a good few seconds to look up, and when he does, Scout can read the emptiness in his eyes.

"What's got ya lookin' so down, Doc?" He murmurs, crossing around the desk. It's one of those times when sensory perception is at it's most important. Scout can sense not to assume consent, not to expect an immediate reply. With a soft hand, he touches Medic' shoulder, and follow's the man's gaze to a tiny picture on the desk.

It has been bent every which way, bleached by sunlight, soft with water-damage but loved hard. Loved to within an inch of it's life. Scout can barely make out what the picture once held until he tilts his head and a shadow casts itself there, making the shape of a woman apparent.

Scout knows to be very careful by Medic's silence. It's not tense or dangerous, but sad, and deep. He tries to appear as if he does not feel the drowning. "Damn, Doc," He murmurs, and whistles. "She's beautiful. That your sister?"

Medic's chest swells momentarily in a quiet chuckle. He sits up and blinks, like a machine whirring into life. The cold and robotic nature of his movements is jarring compared with the humanity from which he speaks. "No, Liebling." He shakes his head, and swallows like the words are too bitter to taste. "This isn't Ada." He says.

Scout nods, weakly. The picture means nothing to him, but from the way it has been said, it clearly means a great deal to Medic.

The older man swallows. "I was very young, and very good at fooling myself,"

Of course, Scout knows he needs to be quiet and respect the gravity of the memory, for Medic's sake. But his mouth runs at the speed of his thoughts and it bursts out of him before he know sit. "But you ain't that way, Doc. You're-…you're like me,"

Medic gives him a mirthless little laugh, and shakes his head. "That was Mccarthyism for you." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Scout never thinks about moving to Amercia. Never thinks about the prejudices and ignorant hatred against 'faggots', not just in Boston, but across the county. Not once has he considered the slurs he himself has muttered against the 'Nazi Medic on the BLU team'.

It's not a fence medic has been ties to, but likely a damn stake.

But all Scout says is, "Who was she?"

Medic's eyes come up from the midspace again eventually, looking sad and heavy and glazed-over as if in the grip of a memory. "Hmm?"

"Who was she?" Scout repeats himself.

That's when Medic's voice goes even quieter, and he can't stand to look at anything but the floor. "She was my wife."

Jesus, Mary and Joesph. If he weren't leaning against the desk, Scout knows he would have been bowled over straight onto his ass. The enemy's Demo had mentioned it once in a vague and crude insult, but Scout had always chalked it up to speculation. Nobody else ever spoke about a wife. Then again, nobody ever spoke of Medic's life before RED. There's probably a good reason, so Scout tries to act unsurprised, tries to right himself.

Then it hits him. Was?

"What happened to her?" He asks, still leaning against the desk in case Medic has some other enormous truths to hand Scout. Which he does. Medic stands up and picks the dove off of his shoulder delicately, before swinging the cage-door open, and setting the bird in there. He leans heavy on the side.

"Too much," Is all he manages to say. Then, smaller. "She meant a great deal to me." Scout can't imagine being really attached to anybody. He can't imagine being in love, or at least, admitting to it. He knows sex, and intimacy, but not trust. Not like the pain in Medic's voice.

"I'm sorry," Scout says. "I must be a great consolation prize,"

he really doesn't expect such a soft and quiet man to snap at him the way he does. But Medic's face turns ugly and he holds up a nasty finger to Scout. "She wasn't a prize."

Scout recoils, snarling. "Jesus, I didn't mean it like that." He backpedals, and then sighs.

Of course, the apology is usually enough, but not tonight. Medic's eyes are all shiny with hurt, and his posture is that hard, straight gait he wears when he's trying to be proper. But this grim politeness and sarcasm is false, and that halo Medic is choking on isn't his.

The man hisses. "And you aren't her replacement. You could never be." The words are hard and unkind and maybe Medic will apologise after he realises how caustic they are, but it doesn't dawn on him until Scout speaks.

"I know I ain't her damn replacement .I don't mean shit to you,"

It's Medic's turn to flinch. His face drops and the finger he's holding up extends to a palm. The arrows in his eyes that looked dull in the hatchet of hate turn bright with Cupid's hands, and he stammers. "Scout…"

The boy shrugs. He goes around the other side of the desk and looks down at the paper. "What?" He hisses. "You only keep me around for this stupid kid," His mutterings turn toxic quickly. The hand on his stomach is like the barrel of a gun.

Medic is still stammering, wounded by the words, and amazed at how quickly Scout can turn anything into an argument. "That isn't fair, Liebling, you're forgetting yourself."

He puts his hands on his hips. Part of Scout is just being controversial. He needs proof, right then and there. Empirical evidence that Medic does actually love him, and not just circumstantially, because he feels so damn alone and it feels like this is all he has left. But the man in front of him is uselessly silent. "Tell me I'm wrong," Scout says. "Tell me you'd still keep me around if I weren't sick,"

"You're not sick, Scout. You're pregnant," Again, the simpering comes, and it disgusts him. He hisses.

"You can't even lie to me!" He shakes his head, and staggers backwards a little." I fuckin' knew it, but your lack of effort is just astoundin'," Still, Medic isn't saying anything, and Scout is just getting angrier and angrier because all he wants is to be worth something, and to be really close to somebody. He just wants love, or happiness, but what those words mean gets harder and harder to define. What was once a sure thing is now a gamble. Still, Medic's silence twitches like napalm, and Scout explodes. "Say it!"

The response he gets is inaudible. "No."

"You probably did this to me." He continues, growing in both absurdity and savagery until his words start to meet eachother at their respective ends and beginnings. "An' when it's over, you're gonna leave me out to dry 'cause you're too busy suckin' Heavy's-"

Whatever Scout thinks he knows is proven wrong one fell swoop. He never expected Medic to come back with just as much ferocity, if not more.

"I will not be spoken to like this!" Medic's voice cuts him down the middle like a blade, and Scout freezes, alarmed by the sudden reaction. He watches Medic tear his coat from the back of his chair and give Scout one more nasty look. "You are a cruel child. You have no right to accuse me of anything!"

And the man marches off, stiff as Sunday manners, hands curled into fists and elbows bent a little, reeking of latent hostility. Scout doesn't know where his own aggression had come from. It seems that everybody else has been in love, and has been happy. It seems that he is passed between his own lovers like a possession far too much. After being frozen in shock for a few minutes, Scout follows the footsteps upstairs. He passes through the Rec room, and every pair of eyes present stares hard at him.

Engineer is giving him a queer look. "You set him off somethin' awful, boy,"

Scout shrugs. He will be held accountable by nobody. "I jus' pushed his buttons a little. He's fine."

The older man raises a hand, leant in his chair sideways. "He don't seem fine." And before Scout can go, the man makes one, parting remark. "Y'know, kid, there's a real difference between pushin' a man's buttons, a' pushin' him too far,"

Scout thinks about those words for a very long time. He thinks about them as he fumbles for a cigarette, and finding that he has only four left, and as he lights up, turning from Medic's path to the wall, where he is surprised to find Pyro of all people, sitting quietly. The man –if, indeed it is a man- waves a hand to Scout, and continues to light, and then discard matches into the snow. It seems an odd and wasteful habit, but it seems to keep him happy.

Scout lights up all the same, trying to smoke slow, trying to enjoy it, as he's only got a few left, and they certainly won't last the journey back to Teufort. The moment a curl of smoke reaches the bottom of his lungs, he lets out a contented sky. The air resumes whistling and the clocks start chiming. The world makes sense again.

Pyro turn's towards him, and makes a noise of curiosity, round goggles of the optic mask searching his face. "Mmmppf?" He waits for Scout's reply.

"Uh," The boy stammers, and takes another drag. It's cold, but he'll only be out there a little while. That, and he is wearing his track jacket. Unless he's alone, it never comes off. "Okay," And then a thought strikes him, too brilliant to ignore. He turns to Pyro and smiles with a menacing geniality. "I can talk to you, an' you won't tell nobody." He says. It's not a question. "You never say nothin' anyway, Mumbles,"

The noise he next hears from Pyro could be 'thistles', or possibly 'assholes. It's very difficult to tell. For the largest part, Scout just ignores it. To have somebody there in physicality is all he's asking.

"I hate it here, sometimes." He spits. Takes another drag. Takes a sharp breath in. The cycle repeats. "I've been thinkin' about goin' home a lot, lately," Of course, he doesn't say he thinks about going, and not coming back. The lack of eye contact doesn't encourage or discourage speech, and it stifles Scout for a moment. He flicks ash into the snow. "You ever get lonely?"

Pyro nods. He nods, only to find his response interrupted.

"I don't mean alone. I like bein' on my own fine." Scout draws his knees up to his chest and shivers. "I mean lonely. Even around other people." He lets out a cold little laugh and smiles around the cigarette: a wide, white smile. "They're the worst part." He says, bleakly.

A muffled exhale comes from his company. When Pyro nods this time, it looks sadder. More resigned.

"I know I ain't got a right to complain," Scout goes on, monitoring Pyro's response. He doesn't want to lose what feels like an ally. "I got friends n'all. But it ain't me they want." Another dark chuckle. "I mean, sure, they want me. But not after."

Pyro says 'trellis', or possibly 'jealous'. There's no way of knowing, but Scout doesn't pay it much mind. He needs to get his thoughts out, not to listen.

What was it Ma used to tell him? That he should 'take an inventory of his thoughts'?

"I guess I'm jus' fillin' the space. Spy can't have Sniper, so he settles for me. Medic can't have his woman back, so he has , even Ma wanted me to be Jeb." He throws the cigarette into the snow, and hisses. "It ain't right, y'know? It ain't fair. An' now this stupid ki-"

He realises, halfway through the word, that Pyro, along with the rest of the team, are unaware of Scout's private hell. They have their own suspicions and judgements, no doubt, but he doesn't have to hear them just yet.

Pyro looks at him, the mask casting assumed vacancy over hidden features. "Mmmpff mm?"

"This stupid Christmas thing's got everybody worked up," The lie occurs as he tells it. The simpler the better. "Worked up over nothin', y'know?" If he wants to gracefully cover his tracks, Scout knows he has to turn the conversation. "It don't matter," He mumbles, and kicks at the snow, rising.

There's the sad part. Scout would rather invalidate his own emotions than appear vulnerable. What's he squeezing his heart out to Pyro for? There's nothing e can do, and he doesn't even feel much better for having said anything. No, now Scout feels like everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. And there isn't anybody left to prove him wrong.

-

All he had wanted to do was pack and smoke in silence.

The door had to be locked, the window had to be open three-quarters of an inch, and the cigarettes had to be smoked in silence. Sniper has a knack for precision, and he can tell that the window is a little too far open, from the noise of it breathing a thin slice of air. Stuffing another handful of red shirts into his suitcase, he leans and adjusts the window- one-handed. The wastelands are oblivious to the war of colours. That's ironic, because the white is the only sure winner. Despite the departure tomorrow, the snow hasn't eased up a little. Slivers of ice like cracks frame the edge of the glass.

His attention is only ever needed when he finds a shirt that's too small. Sifting through the mess, he lifts it up, and finds a neat little t-shirt. The owner of the shirt had been a thin, quick little batter, who couldn't have tipped 150lbs soaking wet. Of course, soaking wet isn't the problem.

Grumbling, Sniper tosses it to the side. He'll return it later, or maybe Scout will come and collect it. The less he sees of the boy, the less guilty he feels. Maybe that isn't very nice, but Sniper never pretended to be. He would hate to play a hero almost as much as he'd hate to see Scout's heart break. There's a tinge of bitterness in the Egyptian cigarette.

He'll call it off. He'll end it and then he'll be able to look into the boy's eyes without feeling a very real burning in his chest.

He knows his politics are contradictory. Because he doesn't love Spy. He doesn't love anybody. Though, secretly, he can't help but feel a little relief when he sees Scout go off with somebody else. Of course, Sniper will do what he can to spare the boy pain, and it that means sneaking around, it means sneaking around. The whole thing leaves an itch in his heart that he makes a point of not scratching, because he's terrified of what will come leaking out if he does.

Usually, Sniper's rule of thumb is that he does what he wants. But what do you do if you don't know what you want? Or who you want? He supposes, as he sits down on his bed, that he should hurt them both and be done with it, because, as his mother had explained to him once, 'the only thing worse than a boy who hated you was a boy who loved you'. And how true that is.

His head lifts suddenly when his door slams shut, and he grumbles, because he swears he locked it. The RED standard regulation quarters are piss-poor and cheap, and he grumbles all the way to the door, sliding the bolt across and hooking the chain. As he finishes locking the door, though, he feels warmth behind him, and a voice pierces the veil of silence.

"A bolt-lock?" He hears soft, laughter, and can smell that same Egyptian that he tastes around his own cigarette. "You insult me, Bushman,"

And then, he turns and sees his deepest enemy, and perhaps his only friend, palm clasped around a small, gold pocketwatch. However glad he is to see the man, and however much the sight exacerbates that itch in his heart is hidden by his expression. He merely grunts, and walks past Spy, back to the bed where his things are still in disarray, much like his thoughts.

"Next time, I'll just put a sign on the door, then." He marvels at the pointlessness of the lock, seeing as every other resident could have just as easily blown it open or cut through it. It's a statement, but apparently, Spy has forgotten how to read. He's wearing this awful smirk and this Parisian cologne and it fills the room slowly when the man peels off his jacket, and places it neatly on the back of a chair.

Playing oblivious to Spy, and the smell of his cologne and the taste of the cigarettes like the taste of his lips, he continues throwing handfuls of shirts into the case, stuffing them down to make room for books, and then for his broken photo-frame. It's silly to be sentimental, and he knows that. So why is he smoking one of Spy's cigarettes? Why does his chest ache with this burning that consumes him?

Spy lifts the small shirt, the one that isn't his, and chuckles, folding it up. "Tell me you don't sleep curled around it like the sad fool you are."

The jest is a good ten years too early. It winds him, but he remains inert to the rest of the world. He snatches the shirt from out of Spy's hands, as if gloved hands are leaving stains that spell the word 'adultery'. When Spy starts to laugh, he turns on him. "He left it here." Sniper waits a beat to deliver the punchline. "An' he didn't have to pick the damn lock."

Spy seems to parry the blow with admirable elegance, and nothing but a barked laugh and this look on his face that says Sniper should 'come here and say that'. "Oh, you incurable altruist." He jeers. "Pardon me for forgetting 'ow good and loyal to 'im."

These are the moments Sniper remembers. The ones that have him so scared to fall asleep for fear of what he might dream that he's terrified of his own shadow, that leave him wide-eyed as his thoughts strain from his ears drain out of his fingertips until he is left with nothing.

He grabs a fistful of Spy's shirt. "Shut up."

The man is more concerned about the state his tie than being in harm's way, and scowls. "What do you think you are-"

"Shut up," He doesn't want to do it. But he does.

The kiss is the ugliest beauty he has ever felt. The sensation tears down him and settles in his toes, hard and sharp and warm. Immediately, he warms and softens, going from rigid to lax against the other man, bringing them together so that he can feel Spy's heartbeat like cheap rock and roll. And it's messy and nasty, but it's good, too. Because maybe there' love and sentiment and nostalgia on Spy's lips but it's buried underneath years of hatred and regret and so many what-ifs that his own thoughts feel fossilised by the time he breaks away, breathless and blushing, hot with his own shame.

The kiss is the most intimate part of their arrangement, and it lasts not ten seconds. In a moment, that chastity is forgotten, and replaced with carnal desire and instinct, no thinking or talking, but all nails and teeth, all hands that fumble.

No time for conversation. He want this, but he wants it over, too, and shoves Spy down hard, clamps a hand over the man's mouth and makes quick work with his shirt with the other, quick from practise. Jesus Christ, Spy feels good, he's slim and soft and while his skin looks snowy, the heat rises under Sniper's fingers quickly. He tears off his own shirt.

The kissing turns to biting, and once the air is on his own torso, his back is singing with the rake's song, to the tune of Spy's nails, and his neck is turning pink to red to purple from spy's neat teeth, and it drives him wild, because this is what he wants, this is what he needs on the most primal level. Already, he's rabid and half-hard and his pupils are blown. There's no co-ordination left in his hands, and it's with Spy's help that he manages to undo his own belt.

When both of them are completely exposed to the air, Sniper gives him a horrifyingly gentle squeeze and watches Spy beneath him relinquish all control, gives Sniper the entire damn world on a whim, thrashing a little beneath him. The man's pupils are blown and he's feral. "Don't –hn! Don't waste my t-time..."

He grows hotter and harder and heavier in Sniper's palm and that in itself is glorious. He doesn't mess about, moving further up, and biting down hard on Spy's neck, moving his hand all the while, keeping Spy desperate but alert, feeling a warm stickiness that assures him he knows what he's doing.

When he rubs a thumb over Spy's slit, he's done for. "Mon Di-" Sniper has to clamp a hand over his mouth again, blood singing with triumph. He did that. He is solely responsible for the way spy looks now, so desperate and wanton, and only he knows how Spy forgets his english when he loses his composure, but never tells a sole because the secret is so delicious and depraved.

"That's it," He croons, grinning. "That's-" But he never gets to finish the thought because as he's speaking, he hears the bolt click, and then he hears the clatter of can-on-carpet, and in the doorway a pale Scout is standing, looking completely swung open.

Beneath him, Spy goes rigid with tension, and it takes everything –it takes years of rehearsed silence for Sniper not to mewl.

"What-..." The shock in Scout's voice drops hard and heavy to the floor like an anvil, replaces with growing anger. "What the hell is this?" The silence that grows is unsatisfactory and Scout is going red in the face, not the embarrassed kind, but the kind that comes from being suffocated, but he's definitely breathing by the heaving of his chest. His hands are in fists and Sniper can't do anything at all but push himself up slightly and swallow.

But that's not good enough.

In a second, the boy is livid, and with a trembling hand, he's pointing his pistol at the floor near the bed with a lax wrist. The room is hot and heavy with a disaster that Spy doesn't seem to feel. His breathing is the main sound. At last, Scout speaks, but when he does, he's staring at some bleak corner of the room.

"I used to think you were the best thing that ever happened to me, y'know," He says, quietly. He swallows "But now, I think you might jus' be the worst."

Scout raises the pistol, still not looking at Sniper, and if he was, he'd see Spy slipping out from under him, quiet and agile and cat-like. No, instead, Scout just stands there, holding out the weapon. Of course, there's respawn, but there's also the metaphor of the action.

Sniper shakes his head. "I been a shooter more years than you been alive, mate. Put it down."

to his ears, Scout's voice sounds odd and pinched, and he raises the gun up a little hire. If his finger were to slip now, Sniper would be sent on a one-way trip to respawn. Instead of shooting, though, Scout stares hard at him, his face a portrait of hurt. "Why should I?"

And then, suddenly, there's a voice right in Scout's ear, and a friendly hand pulling his arm down slowly, prying the gun from his hands with a superhuman humanity. Spy is right up against him, smirking, taking Scout's cheek is his other hand and giving it a caress. "Calm yourself, lapin," he murmurs. No doubt Scout can feel his skin and that alone is enough for most good men to bury their sense. "There's no need to be jealous," Spy continues. "Ask, and you will receive."

Scout is staring at the floor in front of him looking very conflicted. His convictions are starting to look less and less concrete as Spy tosses the pistol away, and roams a free hand down one of the boy's strong thighs, and then up again, using his nails as he retreats and setting in shivers in the wake of his movements. He starts to be led to the bed by spy, who gives Sniper a knowing look through lust-addled eyes. "Come," He murmurs into Scout's hair. "Relax, mon cher."

Scout doesn't. At least, not right away. Quite quickly, Sniper picks up the hint, and both of them overwhelm the the boy with sweet nothings and kisses and lingering touches that have his cheeks burning brighter than the napalm silence. Scout might be apprehensive at first, but the tension in his body drains quickly and soon he's sinking against the pillows, whimpering in delight, and the pleasure is clear and visceral. He whimpers against Sniper's shoulder.

With practise, Sniper makes work of Scout's trousers right away, slipping them down over his socks, and discarding the jacket in a similar fashion. His eyes never leave Spy's, saying so much without ever using a word, doing so dam much to the other man –Jesus Christ, too much, without ever lifting a finger. Their battleground is Scout, and the boy never wanted to be anybody's proxy, but it's too late for that. As Sniper slips a finger under his t-shirt, Scout shakes his head breathlessly, and pushes the man's hand lower, wants more, wants now, asks for it in the only way he knows.

Not to be outdone, spy drops forward almost immediately, running a tongue down the length of Scout;s underside. The noise the boy makes is a verbal car-crash.

"Oh, Jesus-..." He throws back his head, with no regard to the etiquette, and thrusts with the desperation of a man on death row. The heat envelopes him, and it;s the kind of fellatio that wins wars, he swears, the right amount of pressure, and tongue, and he can feel the back of Spy's throat at intervals, Jesus Christ, it's so good, he has to keep his grip on the sheets no to blow his load then and there, arching his back off of the bed.

Sniper's touch comes from nowhere and tears his vision down the middle. "A-ah?" Scout can just about manage to lift his head, completely overloaded by the sensation of spy's cruel and vigilant mouth working in tandem with a single, long finger curled inside of him. It's heaven, it's everything. They are worshipping him completely, nothing else in their minds but him. They care nothing for anything else but getting him off. Oh, God, it's so hard to hold on. His eyes squeeze shut and his toes curl and by the time orgasm rips through him his extremities will be numb and tingling.

Spy's tongue starts swirling and a low, keening noise warms the back of his throat. "Oh, God," he hisses. Another finger curls inside of him and Scout can see the burning behind his eyelids of nights like this he screamed so hard the stars died. There's an unwinding within him, and as he breath draws short and his hips move rougher and the pressure becomes unbearable he lets out a wild hiss, throwing his head back in unadulterated delight as he goes in one fell swoop.

It is drawn out of him until he is left with nothing but unparalleled delight. Exhausted, he leans back against the pillows and sighs, his eyes heavy, his breathing levelling out slowly. His eyes drift lazily to the men around him, his men, who are looking at one another as if they are staring into funhouse mirrors. Scout knows he should return the favour, or do something, anything, but fall asleep. But he is so very tired, and the smile Sniper gives him is so serene, it carries him off.

So Scout sleeps.

-

It cannot be much later when he wakes again. His eyes do not open immediately, so the sound of quiet conversation mixes with his own dreams until he isn't sure what's real or not. After a few seconds of laying there, eyes still closed but very much awake, Scout can finally place himself. He must be between Sniper and Spy. There's the distinct smell of Egyptian cigarettes just about muffling the smell of sex. Scout is warm.

"Either way," He hears a familiar voice. Sniper is halfway through vocalising a thought. "At least he's young. I don't even get to call this an 'indiscretion o' youth'." Scout figures they must be talking about him. Part of him is flattered. Part of him is horrified. He doesn't dare crack an eye open, but remains listening. Spy's laughter is rich.

"There's no guarantee it is your indiscretion, mon moitié," There's a short pause. Spy sounds very casual about the whole affair. Of course, Scout can only guess, because what he hears is taken out of context, but his heart sinks under the strong suspicion that they're talking about his kid. "You 'ave no contract to fulfill."

Sniper takes a breath in. "So you reckon we should leave this in the hands of Medic?"

A shrug. The most non-committal of shoulder shrugs. "Why not?" Spy says, carelessly. "'e would do the best job of it, non? Scout likes 'im well enough." Scot tries not to think about how hard Medic tries to make him happy, balancing the weight of the world on his shoulders just to hear about the boy's day.

"Nah," Sniper laughs. "He does a good job of convincin' Medic that he's in love with him. Might not be a nice kid, but he's a smart one." High praise. Nobody ever says things like that directly to Scout for fear of actually complimenting him. It's nice to hear it spoken without agenda. "Does he know about Katherine?"  
"Hmm?" Spy seems a little lost. Sniper gives him a patient sigh.

"That woman what Medic was married to." Is his explanation. "He ought to know, so that he ain't jus' bein' used as a replacement." there's a silence that fills the air, and the only sounds are breathing and smoking and it helps Scout to take an inventory of his thoughts. He thinks how much more Sniper would want him if it weren't for the child, and it makes him stiff with rage. After a while, Spy laughs.

"I 'ave never known you to be so considerate. You never were with me."

It's the first Scout's ever heard them speak of it. While it's said as a joke, the nature of it is very bitter, and there's clearly a lot left unsaid, and unheard. Sniper remains steadfast in his silence until he breaks.

"You know that was different., " He says, quietly, and then adopts the same strange, abandoned laugh. "Hell, I still can't sleep with me back to the door." They both laugh, this time, and spy makes a noise of amusement as he breathes out.

"Anybody would think you don't trust me." He says, gently. More laughter.

"A sensitive man like you, Spook? A rational bloke, never known to be violent."

Spy scoffs. "Oh, low."

Sniper's tone is playful. "I can go lower,"

"Bet you can." A sharp laugh.

"Not for you, mate."

there is another pause, followed by a sigh. Spy is talking with a smile. "Are all Australians this way? Sing love-songs about crocodiles?"

Sniper bites back just as quick. "Only the pretty ones." Hell, even at that, Scout squeaks out a laugh, and silence falls as panic reigns supreme. "Is he wakin' up?"

Scout can feel two pairs of eyes on him, and they are not unwelcome, but hot, and he adjusts himself a little, trying to look as sleepy as possible. It's difficult, though, because he is entirely distracted by another sensation. Not the groggy flutters like before, the ones he could ignore or blame on something else, but full and unmistakable kicks that make it an admirable task just to keep a straight face.

"Non," Spy says, at a much lower volume. "'e's still dead to the world,"

Their conversation grows quieter and quieter as the sensation that grips Scout grows more and more pertinent until he fades back into sleep, tired, satiated, but best of all, not alone.

Scout is playing a dangerous game.

He thinks he's unstoppable, uncontained, that he is the master of his own destiny. Scout thinks that it will take more than threats to scare him, and it's only because of this defiance that he sticks with his choices. He doesn't know the extent of the game.

-

On the last day, he learns.

Exhausted from the half-done battle and pierced by an arrow to the shoulder, he finds himself cornered by the BLU Medic once more, all sinister smiles and a cold, hard laugh. "You didn't think I would forget about you, Junge?"

He holds Scout to the wall with the blade of his saw at the boy's neck. He starts to saw at an excruciating pace, flecks of blood hitting the glass of his spectacles like rain, screams from his foe ringing out like slander. The blade heats up and the teeth of the saw munch hungrily as the innocent flesh, but BLU Medic continues, pressed right up against him, laughing at the helplessness of Scout, no ammo, no strength, and only enough consciousness left to suffer.

He prays for a quick death. He prays in gibberish, incomprehensible with agony until the motion of the blade stops and a remarkable silence sets upon the BLU Medic. His eyes are wide with surprise and his mouth opens with genuine, blindsiding curiosity. "Was..?"

Slowly, keeping his eyes on Scout's the entire time, he tears the saw from the boy's neck and cuts through the fabric of the track jacket, and then the stark RED shirt. His hand is cold and clumsy when he pushes his palm against the underside of Scout's belly and glares hard, eyes searching for some kind of explanation or answer, as men of science often are. The blood-loss is making Scout woozy. He'll be dead in a minute.

A whimper tears through Scout when he feels two or three hard kicks that betray him, and the sound tears through his resolve. "Surely not..." The noise of pleasure the BLU Medic makes is unmistakable. He knows. Jesus, he knows, and there will be no escaping him now.

"How remarkable," The man lets out a dark chuckle, and moves the blade very carefully, but not back to Scout's throat with spews blood like profanities. For a second, the BLU Medic appears to be trying to staunch the bleeding, before realising it's futility, and cursing. "Verdammnt." He hisses, and as Scout's vision fades into white spots and he can already see the blinking lights of respawn by the time the jagged blade slices the skin of his stomach in half.

Scout re-materialises bent over, breathless with what might be tears, and heaving lie he'll be sick. "Oh, God," He cries, voice shaking like a tremolo.

But he doubts that even God can help him now.


	12. XII

The journey going back is as unpleasant as it was going in.

None of them are sorry to leave Coldfront. They drag their luggage through the tundra and curse the entire while, and the conversation on the walk back to the station is minimal. It's harder than Scout remembers, further, and more exhausting. Where there so many hills before? Did it always leave him this breathless? Less than a quarter-mile from the station, and he feels as if he can barely go on.

An arm scoops him from a stagger to a march, and he hears the gentle mutter of Heavy, giving him a knowing nod. One that knows too much. "Come, leetle Scout. Is not time for sleep."

The only thing that pushes him forward for the rest of the journey, already stung with cold that soaks his shins and bitter with fear, is the horrible suspicion that maybe Medic isn't as confidential as he supposed to be. As he's under oath to be. The problem isn't that he hasn't been textbook, but that it wasn't his secret to tell. After all, loose lips sink ships.

The rest of the journey is short, and a train is waiting, it's smart blacked-out windows and faded red paint stark against the snow. The interior is bland and bare, but warm, and there's enough room for Scout to sprawl across three seats. He has his last three cigarettes, and buries the matchbox in the bottom of his suitcase like a burial.

After about two hours, he's roused by the smell of some kind of pasta with too much rosemary for it's own good. Despite that being the only distinguishable flavour, he finishes it fast, and hopes in vain that somebody else will forfeit theirs. Nobody does.

It doesn't feel like they're moving fast enough. But it's getting warmer and warmer, the further they travel from Coldfront. He peels off his socks and leaves them out to dry, along with his snow-sodden shoes, and curls up under the next best thing to a blanket he packed: a long towel. The cards are out again, and they're all smiling, and laughing. Scout should participate, and not just haunt the display before him, but doesn't move an inch.

He sleeps.

The fighting continues like the journey from Coldfront wasn't exhausting.

Scout likes his job fine. He likes being a front runner, he cherishes the transfer of energy from a shogun shell to a victim, and memorises the crunch of metal on bone every time he wields his bat. He loves his job, but he knows he can't keep it up forever.

Scout isn't even on leave yet, but can't sprint worth anything anymore, slow and deliberate steps that charge through sentry-fire uselessly. Breathless jogging down BLU corridors that seem him set alight more than once. Two hours in, and they're already losing by a country mile, on account of BLU Spy's perfection deception and the circuitous blur of the enemy Scout's feet.

Scout watches him in disbelief, when he isn't under a hail of fire, and thinks 'Jesus, did I used to be that quick?'. However the BLU Medic feels, he sticks to his Heavy and tears through RED defences like fire through forests, and doesn't spare Scout another encounter.

It's going well enough. He manages to get over to BLU territory, up on the perch that Snipers are usually fond of, and makes the mistake of leaning on his knees to get a little breath back. It's just warm enough to keep his jacket on, just, and as he's thinking about how nice it is outside, he hears the rattle of a drawn string, and the hat on his is taken by the arrow, headset and all, pinned against the wall. An inch more, and Scout would be bleeding.

He staggers backwards, staring right up at the BLU Sniper who can't load his bow quick enough. More arrows fly, and one of them gets him in the arm, going all the way to the bone. It hurts like hell, spilling hot blood onto his skin and crackling like electricity, but Scout doesn't stop running down the darkening blue tunnel labelled 'intelligence'. He keeps going, despite his sluggishness, despite the pain.

Once he turns the corridor, he tears the arrow out, and throws it onto the ground, sucking in precious oxygen. Despite his breathlessness, Scout has been raised never to leave anything unfinished or unsaid, and as he swipes the heavy suitcase from the desk, bleeding a trail of paper as he sets off, Scout lets himself think he might just get out of this one alive, cradling his injured arm and jogging up the tunnel.

A bat takes out his shins and the crunch rings in his ears as he goes over face-first, onto his teeth and he lands, skidding to an ungraceful halt on his front. Looking up, he can just about make out a pair of hard, white shins, and the tip of a bat, covered in dried blood and textured with dents. The suitcase is torn from his hands, and the voice of his enemy is hot with laughter. "Look at you," More laughter. "You look like ya got dragged through a freakin hedge."

Scout doesn't dare move, or make a noise. He keeps very quiet, hoping that the BLU Scout will leave him there to claw his way back to base. He can hope all he wants, because the BLU Scout does no such thing, and instead leans down, grabbing a fistful of his fringe. Their eyes meet. "I heard the strangest thing, talkin' to Doc last night."

Scout swallows. It only makes his enemy laugh harder.

"Naw!" He roars, twisting Scout's face up higher. "Naw, you can't be serious. That's freakin' disgustin'…" The boy's face goes all smug with superiority. "I knew you was a slut, but I didn't think Doc was serious."

Scout wants to die. He wants the mercy of death, but it doesn't come, and instead, the BLU Scout just continues his harrowing. "All this time, I thought you was jus' getting' fat. Turns out you're a freakshow."

Scout tries not to rise to his adversary, and stars at the floor right in front of him, tasting the crunch of his own teeth all wet and salty with blood. On of his arms bends, and he fumbles awkwardly. The bat he was carrying has rolled away from him but is he's quick, he can probably reach his pistol. If he's quick and quiet, which he never is. In a second, BLU Scout stamps his foot down on the back of his neck, and grabs his hands. Scout is motionless as the boy empties the pistol, and then the scattergun, dropping the empty weapons to the floor and laughing.

He leans down to Scout once more and grins. "I ain't gonna kill you. That's be too easy." Waits a beat for the punchline. "I reckon I should hogtie ya, an' bring ya to Doc. He'd love that." And still, Scout swallows his own blood, safe in the knowledge that he'll have to swallow an entire pint before he gets sick. "Got nothin' to say for once. Medic's dick still got your tongue?"

He despises the notion, and spits up a frothy, rosy circle of saliva. "Ma still got your balls?"

BLU Scout doesn't like that, not a bit, and he forces Scout's head back some more by the hair, grinning voraciously all the while. If he was offended, the grunt of pain Scout lets out at the tug wipes it away, and now he can feel the pad of his enemy's thumb over his lips. "I bet ya love suckin' dick. Look at the mouth on you." Scout can't see the other hand, but from the sound, it's jingling with a fly. BLU Scout curls a finger into his mouth experimentally,all the way up to the second knuckle, and Scout had has enough.

He clamps down viciously, and when he spits the finger back out, it's bloody.

"Fuck!" The BLU Scout's face turns ugly in a second, and he glowers with fury. Before even thinking, he tears the pistol from his own pocket and loosens off the entire magazine into Scout.

The lights of respawn blink in heir milkiness. He only feels four of the shots.

Whatever the BLU Scout, or anybody else for that matter thought before, there's no mistaking it now.

-

The desert is at the other end of the universe. At least, that's what it feels like. The nights are warmer and the sky is starrier and the light is softer. But Scout only ever notices when he has been away.

Isn't that always the way of things? You only need the light after exposure to darkness. Only miss the sunshine when it starts to rain. Only know you love them when you let them go.

For the season, it's really peaceful in Teufort. The people are decorating their lawns for halloween with signs and jack-o-lanterns strung in rows, open-mouthed, dignified in martyrs deaths. The skeletons stand stiffly, empty-heads voting Republican their whole lives, rosettes discarded now. Even a pumpkin manages it's way into the Rec room at RED base.

Scout likes halloween fine. Loved it when he was a child, in fact, but the fatigue from travel and the temperature change cause him to feel sick and shaky, and in his dreams that night the pumpkin sits in a pair of shoulders, and smiles a meaty smile. It raises it's blue-gloved hand, fingers fat as sausages, white coat stained with who-knows-what. In his dreams he's in the back of the old butcher's shop, cornered by the pumpkin-headed BLU Medic as smug, woolly cattle on the tiles graze on eternity, and plastic hedges divide the rows of ambiguous meat, playing farms.

Tacky sawdust clogs his feet and he remembers pleas that couldn't have been his, too pathetic, too small—…and all the while, the soggy paper parcels bleed.

When Scout wakes, he isn't breathing, and takes an enormous gasp of air in, jolting forward to his reality. The room is a startling blood-red, but there is no meat here, no creaky sign that hangs outside of the room, no Medic, no danger. Like a carcrash, he waits for the impact, for his sheets to start blooming poppy-red, but it never comes.

He dresses in a large shirt, and leaves his underwear on. The Rec room is blissfully empty, and he drinks a solitary up of coffee in the glow before the sunrise. He tries his best not to think about the dream, but it gets to him, not just because of the horror, but something else. The thought of getting killed before, or getting dragged back to BLU base wasn't so scary, because they would come for him. Before, it was a test of who would come the fastest.

If he were to be taken by BLU now, Scout wonders if anybody would come at all.

He knows he's playing a dangerous game. Too dangerous, even for him. What convinced him into playing happy families in the beginning was the idea of never being alone. Not just because of some kid. He'd once held this childish, vain hope that Sniper would feel obligated to stay; he'd feel responsible, and Scout would be worth something to somebody. Now, more than ever, Scout feels paralysed with loneliness, and the hard, jarring kicks don't soften the reality at all.

Scout can no longer see his toes. He can no longer run, or smoke, or drink. He can't go into town with the others and fuck a girl in a motel room. He an't even get himself out of a chair without using two hands. And through all of this suffering, he's still alone. Scout can't do anything alone.

He sits there with an empty cup as the sunrises. The day has only started, and already, he's exhausted.

-

He has made up his mind when he strolls down to the infirmary, already three hours late.

Medic is waiting for him, admirably, wordlessly stumbling over English words in his English book, the expression on his face demonstrating how much of a chore he finds the activity. When he sees Scout. he folds the corner of the page down and puts the book on his desk, sitting up and giving the boy a glare that tells him he still isn't forgiven. There is still bad blood between them.

"I said five o'clock." He says, in an especially thick German accent. Scout can't tell if he's doing it on purpose or not. "Five o'clock," The man repeats. "It's eight."

Scout gives him a shoulder-shrug, and that's all. "I was busy."

"Busy, indeed." In a second, all of this venom comes oozing out of Medic's voice. Scout has no illusions, and he knows he deserves this treatment, but it still shocks him. Medic usually bends over backwards for him, never once complains. There isn't a hint of that today, and Scout fears he knows too well what happens to things that won't bend.

Still, though, Medic stands, and wanders across the room to where his gloves are sitting. He's more naked when his hands are exposed, then when he is bereft of any other item of clothing. It's odd. The man sighs and leans heavy on the examination table, and he suddenly, looks much older than Scout knows him. "Shall we?" The man says.

It's now or never.

So Scout swallows. He thinks of every inconvenience this has caused him, thinks of a parallel world in which he sees Sniper a little more, instead of a little less, where Spy isn't giving him this funny look, where Medic doesn't use words as toxic as 'love'. and he musters all of it, because he'll need it. Scout hates to lead anybody on. And he knows he's going to hate hurting Medic.

It seems to take an eternity. The silence grates to a halt when he swallows, and whispers.

"I can't keep this up."

All of a sudden, Medic straightens, and his expression shuts up like windows above a revolution. What lingered of his humanity dries out in an instant, and Scout can feel the heavy weight of tension, and disaster when Medic opens his mouth to speak and shuts it. He finally manages words. "I don't understand what you mean." He says.

Medic understands exactly what he means.

Scout is being stared at like he's asked Medic for his eyes, and the burning in his chest is hard to ignore. Scout is sure somebody else is speaking when words finally emerge from him. "I can't do it, Doc. I want out."

Medic doesn't look at him when he speaks. stares at the floor, or some bleak corner of the room. He is swung out in a wide, white smile that Scout knows not to trust. "You want…out." Before he speaks again, he licks his lips. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you. Not this late."

He takes two steps forwards, and looks up at Scout, who remains stapled to the spot. Medic goes back to his desk and presses his palms onto the wood, striving to keep his composure. Scout grits his teeth. He will not be intimidated into changing his mind. "Don't lie to me." He says, sharply. "I know this ain't fair, but you can't just say no."

"Oh?" Scout doesn't recognise this side of Medic. It's sinister and sarcastic and so very bitter. he's never seen it before tonight. "I believe I just did."

"Fuck you!" Scout snaps. He thinks about how painful it was to speak, and how much fighting with himself it took just to get down to the Infirmary. This isn't what he has suffered for. "You don't want to help me? Fine!" Their eyes meet. "Y'think I can't just walk outta the respawn zone an' put a bullet in the right place?"

All Medic says is, "Fine." Despite the pallor of his face when he hears the suggestion. the grim and unfeeling nature of his face extends to his speech, and it leaves a sourness in Scout's mouth as he turns, and starts to walk away. But he never makes it out of the door. Gets halfway before Medic opens his mouth again.

"If you leave this room, I will tell all of them."

And Scout freezes, stapled to the spot once more. His pulse slows to a crawl, and his skin prickles with a sudden drop in temperature. he thinks about the men upstairs, who avoided him in the showers for three months after they found out he was a 'faggot', and only tolerated such dissent from the norm because he was a RED faggot. They won't be saying that if they find out.

They won't be tying him to the fence and leaving him for dead this time. They'll be killing him.

Winded, Scout turns around, and looks at Medic. the man is staring at the boy with no readable emotion on his face. His voice is a murmur when he says, "I'm afraid you have thought me a bigger fool than I am."

after a staggered moment, Scout lets out a small breath and stares at the desk. "I don't know what you're talkin' about." he says. His voice is a decimal.

"Don't you?" There is still no emotion on Medic's face. Only a cold light in his eyes that Scout can't read. "I will help you with nothing." he spits. "Und I will allow you to labour under the delusion that being childless will obligate Herr Sniper to love you."

The truth is caustic to Scout's ears and his face turns beet red. He doesn't want to listen to what's being said. Not just because it's true. The truth is the least of his worries. Scout knows he can't win this by returning Medic's outrage with his own anger.

Very calmly, he crosses the room, and sits back in front of Medic's desk. He folds his hands into his laps and stares at the tile when he speaks in a defeated, meek little voice. "It isn't like that. I know this ain't easy for you." He smooths his hands on his thighs nervously. His hands twitch with nerves. "Please, Doc, don't make this uglier than it is."

"Mm, by all means." Medic's reply comes in a quieter, calmer voice, and for a moment Scout thinks he's perhaps found a little sympathy left. Medic comes around the desk and leans on it a little when he looks at Scout. "What is it you suggest we do?"

Scout swallows. He looks at his hands some more. He looks everywhere but the swell of his stomach. "You could—…" A pained sigh. "Y'could let me get rid of this kid quietly—" The thought never gets completed.

"I will help you with nothing." Medic says once more, with such venom and conviction that Scout lets out a mirthless little laugh and shakes his head.

"Quit bein' so hateful." He snaps, and glares up at Medic. "Y'know, I never meant to hurt anybody, but I can't help it if I don't want a kid, or if I love somebody that ain't you."

Medic laughs at him, not even subtly. Medic looks him in the face and laughs at him, this cruel smile colouring his features a different shade of disaster. One that Scout hasn't seen before, and doesn't recognise. the man shakes his head like he's heard it all before so Scout pipes up again. "He loves me too, y'know."

"Really?" Jesus, Medic sounds so bored and distant Scout stands up, flushed with indignation. "I knew you weren't the brightest boy, but I didn't realise you were actually a fool."

Scout swallows his pride. He wants to start shouting, or shooting. Anything to shwo Medic how taxing life has become just because of one decision, and how unthinkable it would be to deny Scout a way out. So he speaks calmly, while looking at his shoes.

"If it makes you feel better to hurt me, then go ahead, but you oughta be used to this. I always loved him."

Medic laughs again, and makes this mockery of solemity. "Of course," he nods, satirically. Scout can control himself no longer.

"An' I'm sick to death of lyin' to you!" He hisses. Medic takes a step over to him with this hateful stare.

"Yes, and now you curse the day you ever met me." He jeers. Scout isn't having any of it. He raises his hand and closes it into a fist. He thinks very hard about socking Medic in the jaw, but knows that right now the man could overpower him easily.

Scout's voice is very nearly a shout once more. "Don't fuckin' mock me!"

"there is no other response for such pathetic behaviour!" Out of nowhere, Medic starts to shout. His voice is loud and powerful and it scares Scout. "It's comic." He mutters, looking at anything but Scout. "When I think about how hard I tried to make you happy. Desbasing myself. Acting as though I were as thrilled by—"

Scout turns once more, and starts to leave. "I don't hafta listen to this!" He shouts. "You're—"

In a moment, Medic has thrown him up against the wall, and he a hand around his throat. his voice is very deep and quiet when he speaks. "Interrupt me again, and I'll strangle you."

So Scout spits at him.

"You get your fuckin' hands offa me!" He screams. "Lemme go!"

Medic is frighteningly strong. He half-lifts, half-drags Scout across the room as he kicks at the tile beneath his feet. The man's chest is heaving with rage, and his grip is hard as he lifts Scout onto the hard table. The boy is howling by now, staring up at Medic bitterly, whose chest is heaving even more and whose mouth is hung open like a smile, as if he is glad that Scout is near tears.

"I'm not your fuckin' woman!" Scout screams. "I ain't ever gonna be your fuckin' boy—"

The grip around his throat grows tighter, and Medic is pressing him down so that Scout is lying on the examination table, with Medic frantically above him. The shouting is incomprehensible.

"Es gibt nur zwei Arten von Jungen. Gehorsam oder dumm. Nur einer ist hier willkommen!"

"You should have left me to die!" He hisses, clawing at the gloved hands but finding no repose from the suffocating grip on his neck. The world's focus grows blurrier as his air becomes more and more scarce. As he speaks, he becomes afraid. It feels as if every word he says is a dagger in the other man, but it feels good, too, now that this awful side of Scout is surfacing.

"Zu spät, dies zu ändern!" Medic spits, nastily.  
And Scout can sense the anger rising to its breaking point. He wants see it spill over. And that's when he remembers the picture of the woman, and the name Sniper had mentioned fleetingly, that belonged to the memory of a dead wife. The one Medic never talked about.

"Then I wish I was dead!" Scout shouts. "I wish I were dead like Katherine!"

It's as if somebody says the magic words. 'Sim Sala Bim!' and Medic's face turns dark, and his grip on scout's neck becomes so tights that all of the air in the room becomes unreachable. Scout struggles violently under Medic's hands. His feet batter wildly against the table as he writhes to be free, and a scream dies to a groan out of his mouth.

The world is starting to blur, and Scout is struggling to make out details. He fights against Medic's hands, but they are too set in their resolve, and he paws blindly at the man's face, whimpering, gasping out. "I can't —please, doc—" But his words fall deaf to the world and his vision starts to swim more violently. With his last scratch of strength, he throws his body up once more, feeling a flurry of excited kicks that come minutes too late, and thus with a gasp, his body goes limp.

For Medic has broken his neck.

When the boy's body goes still, Medic holds him there, in cupid's chokehold, for but a minute more. He drops Scout's body almost instantly.

"Oh, Gott…" When he realises just what he has done, out of spite, and rage, and malice, he drops onto the floor senselessly and clamps a hand over his mouth to soften the cry that tears through him. "Jesus, was habe ich getan?!"

Scout's eyes are still open, bright in shock. His face is a nasty purple colour. wide to the world, Medic cannot stand more than a second's exposure to Scout's eyes, as Respawn begins to claim the corpse, but he stares long enough to notice that they are the colour of jealousy.

-

Scout doesn't sleep, for fear of what he might dream.

He wants to die. Here of all places, he's being held prisoner in his own body, and he's fucking afraid, jumping at his own shadow. One that he doesn't even recognise. The tips of the skyline are ferocious, but the sky itself is indigo, and vague shapes become silhouettes, robbed of all detail. It's Gothic and dark, and stumbling around in the darkness comforts him only slightly more than lying in the dark.

For Scout can still feel Medic's hands clamped around his neck, can still hear the man's wrecked breathing, and still see that look in the man's eyes, of such bitterness. Everything Scout touches-...all it dies, and it gets to him so much that it drives him into the desert. Drives him to homesickness, where he rolls two quarters into the coinslot and dials for his hometown, with a very real need to hear a comforting voice.

Ma will be angry he called so late. But she'll be glad too, and that's the important part.

The dialtone hums in his ear, but it's in the back of his mind. He winds the cord around his finger as he waits. The sky is more starry here. The air is softer, the wind is nicer. There are people, even if the people are humourless and unpleasant. Right now, if Scout wanted to, he could wander into town and a store would be open at his convenience, and there would be people out on the streets, even if only a few. It's a shallow comfort, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

The line clicks. He's through.

Ma's voice is a rusty knife. "You got any idea what time it is here?" She grumbles. It's so good to hear her voice that Scout starts to laugh, filled with weightlessness.

His voice is quiet when he speaks. "I'm sorry, Ma. I only jus' got back." That's a lie. He arrived three days ago, but always puts this activity off, always thinks it's going to be more unpleasant than it is. She's usually tolerable. The meek apology gives her pause, but slows he momentum by none.

Ma still grumbles at him, but asks how he is all the same. For a second, Scout actually considers telling the truth, and trying to explain the bizarre and terrifying situation he has found himself in. The only thing worse than his situation is that idea, so he shuts is mouth and swallows the thought.

"I'm keepin' out of trouble. Workin' hard." As if she would ever believe him. She never thought anybody but her eldest capable of good and hard work. Scout doesn't hold it against her, but against Jeb instead. With the rest of her children, Ma was nothing but fair. She gave none of them her love, equally.

She goes off for a while about how hard Scout's brothers are working, and how pretty their wives are, and how successful they are in their medial jobs as salesman and desk jockeys. Maybe she's right. Maybe Scout is just some kid who hustled his way through high-school and got delusions of grandeur, maybe now he thinks he's too good for the family business. A hundred generations of salesman and factory workers and janitors and pawns.

He leans heavy on the phonebox, but does the listening. He is almost completely zoned-out when something she says catches his ear.

"Wait, Ma." He says, quickly. "Repeat that last part. About Danny."

She sighs. And then she does. Tells him almost explicitly that Danny's wife can't have any more children. Tells him in a very clear tone and un-minced words that they're looking to adopt. And maybe Scout is being ridiculous, as he often is, but the idea strikes him so hard that he hears himself talking even before he can help it.

"I might know somebody, y'know." He says, quickly. And then laughs, nervously. "somebody pretty fuckin' prefect, actual –yeah, yeah, I know I kiss you with that mouth, Ma. Are you even listenin' to me?" He sighs again, and leans even more on the phonebox. "I'll get back to you about this."

When the call ends, he wanders back to base and lays over-the-covers on his bed. Part of him is shaking with excitement at the prospect of not having to give it all up: his life here at RED, or the people in it, whatever they are to him. Wouldn't that be something? To do right be all of them. To actually win. He could be staring the victory he craves in the face. And yet-….and yet? He can't help but feel some responsibility. It's not just this image on the screen in the Infirmary anymore, it's BLU Medic's leverage and 'not Sniper's problem', and it's Scout's responsibility.

He places a nervous hand on his stomach, half-expecting to feel something, anything, out of nowhere. Of course, nothing happens. He should ask more questions, and he should have listened when Medic spoke. He should be more scared than he is, and just as angry as he was. Scout lays there, motionless with fear at his future.

It's ten minutes past three in the morning and he's never been more awake.


	13. XIII

When Heavy finds him, dusty with dim light and tragedy, slumped over his desk in tears, he has no idea what to do. Not a clue, because none of his previous experiences have prepared him for seeing Medic like this –a usually stoic and implacable individual reduced to sobbing into a large palm, spectacles pushed messily up into his hair, shoulders high with tension. No words Heavy can think of in English sound sincere enough to be used, and every physical actions seems too unceremonious.

But the sound of suffering is so unbearable that he cannot fight his instinct any longer, and wraps an arm around Medic, gently around the shoulders so as not to distract him from his pain. As if he could. "Come now, Doktor," He says, softly. "Is nothing to be sad about. All is well."

And, naturally, Medic fights him, swatting away with a hand and trying to fix himself, trying to recover his usually grim, sarcastic composition. "You must knock, Herr Heavy, I am busy –I could have been-..." He only uses the word 'Herr' when he is in a mood. His voice only sounds so pinched when something terrible has happened.

What is his usual cause of distress? Heavy knows.

"Doktor is angry with leetle man?" he asks, his voice gentle, and the vibration runs through the both of them, united. Medic tears away again, swallowing, as if somehow offended or caught out, but shakes his head. In his desperation and misery, Medic looks so much older. The starlit silver in his hair shines, and the fault lines in his face darken with shadows to form a grimacing smile. So, he must assume the worst. "Scout has lost ba-"

"Es war nicht-" for a second, Medic erupts into a shrill and wounded shout, but his fury dissolves when he looks at Heavy, and he shakes his head, morose and resigned. He lets out a shaky breath. "It was not him." He covers his eyes once more, and swallows like the air is bitter, and the action sings of some kind of tragedy. "Oh God, he only wanted-..."

Heavy listens, and does not interrupt.

"He only wanted my help." Medic whimpers, and covers his face once more. "He only wanted my help, and I strangled him!" It grows so fast into a shout that it scares Heavy, of all people. But it's not Medic's ferocity that does it, but the heat of the words, and he remembers his mother saying once that love was like sunlight: sometimes you had to get burned to know you were there.

If that's true, then why does Medic's voice carry the thermonuclear fusion of a white dwarf star, burning bright with something less fickle, and infinitely uglier than anything Heavy could muster?

"Is okay." He says, still speaking in measured and soft tones. His patience with Medic is infinite, like space, expanding with the cosmos to an undefinable definition. "Is over. Respawn bring him back."

The words do no good at all. And Medic is still hot with shame and misery, with Heavy watching, haunting but not participating in any living at all. Nothing seems to comfort the man, and it hurts Heavy so much to see, that his own honesty falls from his mouth before he can steel himself, before he can even help it.  
"You are good man, Doktor." He says. "Best man, to me. I am –been –thinking..." The words are small and simple and mean nothing, and all of a sudden Heavy can no longer deny his heart and it comes out of him like the last words of an innocent man. "I love you, Doktor."

What he doesn't expect is for Medic to recoil in such distaste. The man's face becomes shuttered to all emotion but anger and he raises a hand as if to blindly strike. Heavy doesn't understand, and remains frozen in confusion. He has never known Medic to be like this. He has never known love to be so rough.

He can't seem to find single letters, and yet somehow manages a whole word. "Doktor, I-"

There is nothing but ice in medic's glare, and he swallows before he speaks. There is so much bitterness in his words, most of it for Scout, and yet it finds it's way to Heavy like a hungry termite. "Do not mock me now, Heavy." He spits. "It is hard enough." The anger rises like a wave swelling. "How dare you come to me at a time-"

There Medic is, waiting for the punchline to the joke, but it never comes, and he knows he's the only practical joke in this entire situation, but there Heavy is, looking on with patient eyes: wanting him. It sure knocks the wind out off Medic, and robbed of his oxygen and of his pride, he breaks into a tiny smile, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. He takes one of Heavy's enormous hands and sighs, sharp with hurt.

"I'm sorry." He says, so damn quietly, so destroyed. His definition of 'love' only ever leads to attrition, and in the shadow of the boy medic is merely a shade of his former self, haunting his own consciousness. He looks at Heavy with eyes a thousand years old. "I'm a fool."

"Nyet, doktor-"

Medic laughs coldly. "I'm such a fool." His gaze is naked of pretence or any kind of barrier when he looks at Heavy again, swung out and swung open and so weary of this world. "You deserve one much wiser than I, mein freund. I'm sorry."

There is no hurt when Heavy speaks. He is glad to hear it, and to say it. "Nothing to forgive. We are fools together."

I's the only real smile Medic has given him in a while. The man even laughs a little, swallowing, trying to forget what haunts him. And it seems to work, because his posture softens and the shadows on his face flatter his humanity. Despite his best efforts to hide it from the outside world, Medic is soft and breakable and there are some things he does not survive.

His laughter is indicative of this. "Yes, we are. Old fools together." for a second, the man's face is frozen in a small smile, but his eyes are cold and distant as they often are when in the grip of realisation or contemplation. After a while, he speaks, and Heavy listens. "Don't tell the others," He mumbles. "I have already had my pride torn apart at the hands of a boy."

And Heavy won't. He never will. He could die happily with all of Medic's secrets, not just out of love, but some higher order and calling. Medic is the kind of deep-down good one rarely encounters, the kind that stands at the front of a crowd but is never seen, the one that liberates nations but is never thanked. In spite of it all, Medic is a better man than most of them.

And Scout? Scout is cold. He can sunder lovers and foes alike just as easily, he can tear them to pieces with just his whims. Just on speaking from his heart. Jesus, Scout and his fucking heart. It would have been torn apart years ago had anybody known how much hell it could cause. This destruction means nothing to him, always moving forward, always having someplace else to be.

In the near or distant future he will as Medic why he is so afraid of words like 'love' and Medic will say nothing, but know, to himself, that the boy is responsible. That he could never resurrect within himself somebody spiteful enough not to care. Medic misses him, Medic loves him, and hates him and hungers for him –has treated Scout as if he were the last molecule of oxygen in a gas chamber-...he is good to the boy.

What has he to fear from 'love'? Scars from the first time he fell for Scout. He landed heart-first.

-

As a rule, Scout does not have expectations. He feels that entitlement directly corresponds to disappointment. It proves a challenge not to hold some –yet however he expects Sniper and Spy to treat one another after their rendezvous couldn't be more wrong.

Fiercely tired, he wanders down to the overhang with a fresh pack of cigarettes, that he swears will be his last packet, just like the time before that, and the same before. They're so good at relaxing him, helping him to forget the trivialities of the world, and Scout figures he's got plenty to contend with. So he light up one-handed like Spy does sometimes and closes his lighter with flourish. As he reaches the overhang itself, he is slowed by raised voices, and pauses in the doorway when he finds Sniper leaned against a wall, and Spy, back to the men, staring out, but speaking.

"I ain't interruptin' anythin', am I?" He says awkwardly, jamming his hands into his pockets. Sniper has never been one to give things away in his expression, but he looks pretty closed-off and –well, tired in a way that fatigue doesn't touch upon. The kind of tired that has him sighing instead of yawning.

The man might have said something, but he's interrupted by Spy who gives the boy a short, tight smile and waves a hand. "I have no reservations." He says, in a jarringly pleasant way, before his eyes over over to Sniper and grow colder.

Sniper himself withdraws entirely and stares at the midspace as if it contains something incredibly interesting. "We can talk later, then." He mumbles, and it catches Scout off-guard how earnest and gentle he sounds, and how rare that is. Well, that doesn't count for much to Spy, who shrugs.

"We will talk now." he says, sharply. "Or perhaps you can give me one reason I should put myself to the slightest inconvenience on your part?" there's more to it than meets the eye, Scout can tell, but he keeps himself quiet and smokes up, trying not to make things any more strained than he can sense they are. So he just spectates as the scene unfolds.

"I don't need a reason." Sniper sounds very, purposefully cold. "It just ain't appropriate now." whatever that means is lost on Scout, but it makes Spy laugh a hard and harsh laugh that falls from his face so damn fast.

"'ow very professional of you," he quips. "I doubt it will ever be appropriate to you, ami. It wasn't before." Scout begins to feel very awkward. He pointedly stares at the floor, but risks one glance at Sniper, who looks completely helpless. More than that –irritated, but responsible. Spy flicks ash onto the floor, and then, softer, says. "I didn't think asking you 'ow you felt was such a monumental task."

It's Sniper's turn to laugh. He scuffs a boot on the wood and shakes his head. "You want to know how I feel?" He mutters. "Feel like guttin' you, s'how I feel right now." And then he sighs again. "I don't want to talk about this here."

Incredulous, Spy's mouth drops open but his eyes remain narrowed and disappointed. ""Why not? Is something going to change and suddenly and make it easier at some other time, or in some other location?"

He doesn't even mutter. Sniper faces the man and gives him the brunt of the force in his statement. "It might!"

"Ah, yes, 'ow could I forget how loquacious you are after a fuck." He goes on. "And you used to tell me everything."

"That was different." Sniper protests, a little weakly. Maybe Scout would pity him, but he knows just as well as Spy that if the marksman doesn't want to hear something, he won't hear it. His words are, apparently, unsatisfactory.

"I see no difference." Spy sniffs, coldly. "Speaking for myself, nothing 'as changed."

Sniper pushes himself forward and dusts down his jeans like he's about to leave, wetting his lips to speak before glancing sideways at Scout for just a second. "That's the problem, Spook." He says in a very low voice. "You ain't changed at all."

And he turns to go. Spy stakes a step forward despite himself, and says, "You-"

Scout figures he's doing them both an obvious favour by intervening. "Let him alone, yeah?" And Sniper goes, but spy turns, looking at him like Scout has suggested they get matching lobotomies, or something equally upsetting. "What?" He says, flicking ash onto the wood. "I got rights to speak, too. An' you weren't making the most convincin' argument."

At first, Spy looks like he'll bite, but settles, the tension in his body draining, and he looks at Scout with calmer eyes. It's worth keeping in mind that Scout could still drown in them, though. "I fear you might be right."

The man settles down next to him, and hands him a packet of papers and his last string of tobacco. "Would you, cher? Yours are my preference." Spy says, near-sweetly, before leaning back on his gloved hands and taking in the afternoon in all of it's glory. The tulip-yellow slashes that run through the darkening blue sky seems so out of place in Teufort. It holds above so much death and bad blood and unhappiness, that Scout thinks they're all a little surprised every time they remember to look up.

Scout gets to work with the cigarette-rolling. He grins. "Wit' gusto," and begins to unzip his jacket, finding the evening unseasonably warm, and himself in trustworthy company. Instead of the standard RED shirt as a uniform, Scout is wearing one of there few fitting shirts he has left, an old Red Sox jersey that's loose everywhere but the stomach. "What was ya so desperate to get Sniper talkin' about anyway?"

Spy looks at Scout. The boy sits there, agenda-less, content in busying himself, and maybe he doesn't claim to be smart or wise or loyal but he's good company. The best company, even during a crisis. "'e told me 'e thinks we should 'start seeing eachother a little less'."

Scout waves a hand and mocks him. "Ooh, real intimidatin' stuff." He laughs. Spy looks at him.

"'e said the same thing to me five years ago, and then 'e left me." the laughter dies, torn apart with a single sentence. "The man is a coward." spy notices right away that Scout is sitting up straighter and staring right forward at BLU's base like he has just been struck by lightning. It's unlike him to be so quiet. The cigarette between his lips is burning away wastefully. "Cher?"

Scout lets out a breath. "Bastard said the same thing to me, y'know?" He murmurs, and then sighs, his hands slowly returning to life. He lifts the papers to his mouth and west them. "I mean, 'least he's got a reason for ditchin' me, but it don't seem very fair on you." Spy has a good old laugh at that. As if they were ever fair, any of them. But he always knew that. He can't claim he loves Sniper because of the man's virtue, because that would be bullshit, plain and simple. It's more complex that that.

The boy hands Spy the cigarette and stares at his feet. "Y'know, for a while, I figured I would swing it to have him to myself. Thought he'd be happy about havin' a kid, or somethin'..." Another sigh that's too old or Scout's lungs. "I jus' figured he'd feel responsible."

There isn't a word for what Spy feels, but it goes something like two violins in a room together. If a note is played on one, it will resonate with the other. That's exactly how it feels to catch Scout's misery, to know it so well. "I noticed you 'ave made no move to change your mind."

"I tried." Scout says, quickly. "An' I had the gun in my hand, an' I wandered outside'a the respawn zone, right by the payphone." He is breathless and whimsical. "I needed to hear somebody's voice, so I called my Ma. An' she said that my brother Danny was lookin' for a kid like nobody's business, on account'a his wife."

Spy waits until the boy stops, content to listen and to smoke. "You couldn't do it?" The boy laughs, and shakes his head.

"Ain't that the truth." He laughs. "I been dominatin' BLU's for two years now, but I couldn't even cock my gun." In a rare moment of tenderness, he lets a palm rub across the swell of his abdomen. He sighs. "Jesus, I'm a nut. I'm still hopin' he'll-..."

Spy frowns. "You shouldn't." He says, curtly. "Don't tell me you're willing to suffer a child out of some vain hope that 'e will-"

Now, Scout doesn't like that. He recoils, and shakes his head, frowning. "Naw, it ain't like that. I made up my own mind, alright?" The air hangs heavy with a meaningful silence for just a moment before Spy speaks once more.

"As long as you're certain there is nobody forcing your 'and, ma-"

"Y'should know me a little better than that by now," Scout scoffs. "I don't get pressured into shit. Medic ain't some shady character offering me drugs behind the bike shed." He sighs. "It ain't like 'jus' say no'."

"If you're sure," Spy says, distantly. They look up at eachother, and it's stiff and a little awkward until Scout slumps sideways and leans heavy on Spy's shoulder, staring up at him with these naïve blue eyes. He's still so young. Younger than him are mothers made, sure, but not happy ones. Not ones that desire much from life. After a while, Scout mumbles into his shoulder.

"I like you, man. Like, a lot."

Spy tries to hide the burst of pride that pierces him. If there's one thing that's missing with Sniper, it's this genuine sense of honesty. Scout speaks without scheme or agenda, and he really means it. So Spy gives his hair a gentle stroke.

"You know that I like you the same. It is not even worth saying," he murmurs, pleasantly. Scout's eyes turn up at him once more.

"I reckon we woulda made better friends, though. I like talkin' to you best." Before Spy can speak, the boy runs his mouth a little more. "I mean, I like you fuckin' me, too, but I like talkin' to you best."

Spy smiles. "I could fall in love with a boy like you." He says. But he won't.

-

The evening has turned to night by the time he musters the courage to knock. It's a little cold, and the it's unbearably quiet this far from base. But Scout walks the way and knocks once-twice on the door to Sniper's van and waits.

He remembers considering it incredibly standoffish, and a little rude at first. He assumed the man thought himself too good to sleep at base, or to eat with the others or even to talk. Sniper was too quiet, too reserved and too thoughtful to be of any interest. But then, of course, he was.

Scout hops from foot-to-foot. He doesn't like to wait, and usually doesn't have to. After a while, the door creaks open, and he's met with a cloud of cigarette smoke that hangs all sorts of heavy with the smell of coffee and manhood. At first, Scout found it unpleasant, but he understood over time that the man depended on smell and taste just as much as sight. He's used to it, now. It comforts him, just a little.

"Y'need something, kid?" He says, boredly, shifting back into the door slightly so as not to loom over Scout. Pushing past him, and climbing into familiar space, Scout sneers.

"I ain't been a kid for five years now." Scout says, tossing the words over his shoulder. He comes to sit on the man's bed. "I jus' thought I'd bother ya, old man." He picks up a magazine and flips through it carelessly. It's pictures, but a lot of boring text too, and he gives the title a quizzical read: "Australian Field Ornithology?" It gets snatched from his hand.

"What, you want a story?" Sniper mutters. He moves scout along and lays down, right up against the wall. Picks a burning cigarette from his ashtray and smokes in perfect silence, reading away as if Scout isn't there. Maybe that's supposed to be a hint for him to leave, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he sprawls himself out next to the man, and yawns. "Don't get too comfy, yeah? S'dinner in an hour."

The day feels like it started in the early fifties. Scout knows he's going to fall asleep here even before his eyelids flutter. There's something about Sniper that's, at a very base level, comforting. Usually, Scout is a nervous, restless sleeper, used to having at least two other people in his room with him, be them brothers, brother's girlfriends, or when he was very young, his Ma. It took a lot of adjustment to sleep at RED, or even with any one of Scout's lovers. And out of all of them, he sleeps best next to Sniper. The man has this raw energy and instinct to him. He makes Scout feel protected.

Not that he needs it. As Scout stretches out, he thinks that his embarrassing admission is that he likes being looked after.

Of course, he starts to feel tired very quickly. For once, he manages to keep pretty quiet, content to listen to Sniper breathe, content to watch him smoke, because he is so graceful. Never pretty, or beautiful, but unapologetically human and graceful in all of his movements. Scout can see the growing annoyance rising in the man's eyes every time Scout twitches or fidgets, which he keeps doing despite his weariness until, at last, the man slaps a hand on Scout's upper arm.

"Keep still, ya shit." He says, seriously. "If you're gonna be so restless, sit on the floor." At the half-threat, Scout rolls onto his other side to face Sniper, eyes wide in an expression conveying not hurt but surprise. Of course Sniper doesn't have the gall to mean what he says.

"I ain't restless." Scout says, his voice very level. His eyes flick from Sniper's mouth to his eyes, and he considers kissing him just to be difficult. He decides against it. "An' how am I supposed to keep still with this kid footin' me in the kidney?" For a second, he's scared that Sniper will grimace and withdraw and be completely put off by Scout's honesty. It's not as if the man has been particularly proactive about the entire thing anyway, and Scout is sure he's said too much until the man looks at him.

"Can I-…" Of course, Scout knows exactly what he means. So he folds his arms and shrugs, carelessly.

"I don't know." He says, plainly. "Can you?"

Well, at least it has Sniper laughing. He drops his magazine onto his lap and turns towards Scout with this gentleness. And sure, Scout is nervous as hell even if he can't figure out why, notwithstanding the constant thumps from his stomach. As if on cue, Sniper places his hand high on the swell of Scout's abdomen, lending him the courtesy of eye contact only fleetingly. Scout mistakes it for disgust at first but recognises it as uncertainty.

"You got cold hands, yknow." He says, striving for a tone more sullen then what comes out. Scout doesn't want to let on that he's enjoying the contact. The baby kicks hard again and Sniper flinches out of surprise. That's all the scene lacks. "Yeah," he mumbles, "It's—"

Sniper shakes his head, and smiles. "You can shut up, you know." Scout can't help but feel embarrassed –even just a little, and he turns onto his back despite his own discomfort, staring up at the wood panelling above his head. It's much easier than looking into Sniper's eyes anyway. In spite of everything, it's nice. And Scout dips his head sighs.

His eyes flick to sniper, looking for some kind of permission, or shared belief. It's nice to recognise the man. To not see a stranger. Scout will be damned before he admits to blushing as hard as he is, because he is passive and strong and cold. They're always telling him how cruel he is, and if that's true then why does he feel all jittery and light?

"Don't tell me you've gone all soft, kid." Sniper remarks to him, as he yawns. Again, not that he'd ever admit to it, but Scut is terrified that he has. That this experience will change him. Make him into something he isn't, because maybe Scout doesn't always like himself, but at least he knows who he is.

But what he says is, "Blow me, sweetheart." And he turns onto his other side, giving Sniper his back. He has so many questions to ask, but all he can think of doing is resigning himself to sleep. At first, he feels hot and flushed and uncomfortable but slowly drift into dreamlessness, and peace with the feeling of warm eyes on his shoulders.

He wakes at the feeling of a hand shaking his shoulder, with a backache and a need to piss, enither of which are particularly new or neat. Sniper is sat on the edge of the narrow bed, slipping on his boots with his free hand. He gives Scout this crooked smile, but it's crooken in the way Scout is. They match.

"S'dinner." He says, gently. "Told you not to get too comfy." Very slowly, feeling like a man twice his age, Scout manages to sit up groggily, and glare at the older man as he scrubs his face.

"Say I wanted to stay the night." He mumbles, swinging his legs around. He won't say anything clever, not because he can't think of what to say, but because he's tired of it. Everybody's clever thesedays. As he rises to leave, he's forced back into the matress by the swing of a pillow. An explosion of featehrs hail down like snow, and for a second he's very confused, until he hears Sniper's croaky, genuine laughter.

"If you wanted ta stay, you shoulda said somehting," he laughs, right up until Scout swinsg the spare pillow back onto the man's face with rising tenacity.

"You know I hate that," He says. And he keeps swinging, until he can see nothing but soft white goose-down and he can hear muffled laughter. The space is soon filled, the carpet all flecked with snowy feathers and Scout's hair bleached with it. It's getting longer and longer and longer, and in half the time it usually takes. He's standing in a chaos of his own creation and they'r both laughing but Scout is so terribly afraid that he has to sit again.

When Sniper sits up, he speaks. "Where are we going?" he asks, in a tiny voice. Sniper laughs a short bark.

"Uh, t'dinner." He says, casually. "Ain't you hungry?"

"No, I mean-" He swallows his words before they can come out, so Scout stares hard at the floor and waves a hand vaguely. "I mean us. Where are we going?"

Sniper swallows visibly. He pulls out a few feathers from Scout's hair and looks him squarely in the face. He's handsome. Not beautiful like Spy, and not unreadable like Medic. Scout wants to see it under a thousand different kinds of sunlight.

"I ain't gonna promise you anythin'. You change your mind too much. You ain't good at stickin' to one thing." He says, earnestly. "You're what I need now."

Scout stares at him. "But not later?"

"I don't know," Sniper shrugs, helplessly. He gestures to Scout's stomach. "Don't lecture me like you got the future all figured out." It's a very cheap shot and it has Scout tensing up, going red in the face.

"Hey, fuck yo-"

And Sniper raises his hands, showing his palms as if he has encountered a wild beast. Aware of the power and anger growing beneath his hands, he lets out long, loud breaths and keeps his eyes in Scout's the entire time. "Calm down, alright?" He sighs. "Jus' calm down. I like you, kid. Ya know that. but I never signed up for anything serious. This is fun." He says. scout is staring at him without saying anything, and it's unnerving. "We have fun, don't we?"

"Sure," Scout manages, without a hint of feeling to his voice.

"Right," Sniper is clearly encouraged by the response. "So we might as well keep havin' fun, and, as for the serious stuff-..." Carefully, he looks away from Scout when he continues. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, yeah?"

Well, it isn't a 'no'. There's still time, and Scout can't deny that he does have fun, even if he is playing with fire. It isn't as if he's owed anything, after all. None of them could have ever known what they were getting into, so it isn't worth holding it against them. Scout sighs, and stands up. He'll be damned if he gives himself more than five minutes of glorious, delicious self-pity. After that, he moves on, and forgets about it.

Together, they walk down to dinner amicably, as if they'd be dining on eternity, and not just the bitter flavours of expectation. They're the last ones down to some kind of midwestern chicken dish, courtesy of Soldier, who is deep in conversation with an only-slightly-drunk Demo. Sniper sits first, down by Engineer with whom he always speaks well to, and Scout is floundering the moment he realises that the last empty seat is next to Medic. Thankfully, the man doesn't notice, engrossed in stumbling through his English book. Scout sits as nondescriptly as possible.

It's only when he's sat that the realises the book is 'To Kill a Mockingbird'.

His chair scrapes as he is moving in, and all of a sudden he can feel Medic's eyes on him. Cold and piercing and searching. scout would rather cut them out than endure this for much longer. so he says nothing, and stares forward, helping himself to the potatoes nearest him. He's halfway through them, swallowing a mouthful when the bastard finally speaks in that horrible, simpering tone that implies regret. It's a little late for that.

"Scout," he says, softly. "Could we-"

So he speaks, just as quietly. "No." He mutters. "You don't talk to me. You don't look at me." As he feels the eyes tear off of him, his breathing comes a little easier. A stray smile across the table is in his direction, so he catches it, and smiles back, falsely. Still looking the other way, Medic mumbles.

"I would never mean to hurt you-" Pity comes to late, and Scout curses his mercies.

"You don't fuckin' condescend to speak to me, alright?" He hisses. The food is tasteless to him, and he stares at his plate miserably. "So stick it." The poor, pathetic man can do nothing but stumble over his own thoughts, staring at the wood of the table, reckless with desperation. He glances up at Scout and sighs. "You know what-?"

He stands up very fast, ignoring the horrible rush he gets, and the focus of his world becoming alot softer. His team are staring at him, and Scout suddenly wonders if his idea is a good one. Medic can't hurt him if he does this. He'll have nothing, nothing at all but his shitty, good-for-nothing 'intentions', despite their uselessness. So, fists clenched, staring down at the man, he clears his throat, and ignores the dizziness and fogginess of his thoughts.

"I, uh, I got an announcement." He says, nervously, and that's when spy's eyes go all wide, despite himself. whatever Sniper is swallowing, he damn near chokes on it, swallowing desperately and clinging to the edge of the table. Scout wonders if they'll look at him again after this.

Dammnit, he won't be made vulnerable by everyone else. Medic won't ever be able to threaten him again.

"I'm gonna be on leave in a couple a'weeks. I ain't sure when I'll be comin' back," Mutters of dissent are hear, but nobody interrupts, or questions him outright. It's both good and bad. "They'll send a replacement an' everythin'. Truth is-"

Scout isn't sure if he can muster the word once more. he becomes aware of everybody as individuals, all of their prejudices burning into his apparently thin skin. But Scout sucks it up because that's how things are, and even if he's a faggot or a wimp or a freakshow, at least he's honest with the world. There are always parts to him that will be sloppy and dirty and embarassing, but he likes them. He has to. how many of them, can say the same?

Empowered, but still incredibly lightheaded, Scout manages to find his words. "Truth is, I'm pregnant."

Not a moment too soon, either, before his world goes fuzzy, and then dark. Not before a roar of voices, and then the mighty fall into nothingness.


	14. XIV

"You pissed at me?"

The rifle is getting more attention than Scout is. Hands are curving up and down the long barrel, cleaning it with the same fastidious as one disarms a bomb. And the silence twitches like fire. Napalm quiet, with Scout standing there, feeling useless and wrong and guilty. That's new.

"What I got to be pissed about?" Sniper mutters. Doesn't look at him. Doesn't even act as if Scout is standing there, ready and willing for a punishment that never comes. The squeak of the oil is so loud against the silence that is feels like an assault. "You can say what you like."

Scout leans heavy on the door. "I knew you'd be pissed."

More silence. The hand moving to clean to barrel halts, for just a second, and Scout can hear so many things that just aren't being said in a single sigh of frustration. "Nobody said that." He murmurs.

"I said it." Scout swallows. He's nervous. "I said it 'cause you are pissed, but you don't want to say nothin' about it." A pause, in which Scout holds himself very still. Has the nerve to accuse, but none left to move. "It's only gonna get worse, y'know."

"Ain't you got somewhere to be, kid?" The suggestion in his voice is as hard and obvious as a bullet in the back of an innocent man. It hurts. So Scout nods, and he turns to go.

On the walk back to base, he thinks a lot about Sniper. About how he wants to melt on the man's inner thighs. About how Sniper's body is like a temple, but Scout has burned so many scriptures that when he looks in the mirror all he sees is smoke. He is a dream: they are a nightmare. They are paint on a slick canvas, and sure, Scout knows it would take everything for them to stick, but if they did they'd be a masterpiece.

Scout is shackled to his own insecurities by 'fine', by and 'friends', and by every amiable smile that should be a kiss. It might hurt, but Sniper is nothing, if not honest.

He avoids the rest of them like the plague.

-

It takes everything Scout has to go to see Medic.

It takes walking halfway down there nearly four times, approximately seven cigarettes in quick succession of eachother, biting the nails of all the his left hand's fingers and his pocket knife slipped into his trousers to actually go.

Scout doesn't have any expectations. Simply because he doesn't know what to expect.

Well, the office is just as dark and cold as usual, if not a little messier. Medic's birds are everywhere, and are the first to notice his entry. The last one to note is their master, who is only prompted out of his readings by Scout clearing his throat. That's all he does, and Medic can read the situation right away. Scout is lucid as a floodlight.

Feeling perhaps bold, Medic ignores the previous instructions and looks right at Scout. "You look well." He says, striving to sound as objective as possible. He places whatever he was writing on further up the desk and folds his hands in his lap like he's going to stand up. Scout halts him with a hand.

"Don't get up," He says. "Just-..." he blinks a couple of times and tries to get his thoughts in order. After fighting with himself so much over simply coming here, he feels like he's forgotten his primary motivation. Robbed of it from the pressure of just having to speak. Not that Scout would ever admit it, but he's still a little afraid, even just a little. To see a man usually so pleasant and patient with him turn as he did –eyes wide with hatred, mouth hanging open in maniacal delight- is something Scout wishes never to see again.

But even worse than that, Scout did that. He drew the very worst out of a good man. It's his fault. The observed distance he's keeping between himself and Medic speaks of that. Even safe, his hands are shaking a little. He scrubs his face.

"What did you tell them?" he stuffs his hands into his pockets. The small knife is cold, but comforting. As Medic takes two steps to file away papers, he takes two steps backwards, and prays it goes unnoticed. "Don't play stupid, doc, they'd light up their pitchforks by now if you hadn't said anythin'." At that, Medic turns on his heel, and looks at Scout so plainly that whatever he's saying must bear a great weight.

"I told them what I had to to keep you safe." It's nice. But Scout doesn't believe it,. He swallows. He narrows his eyes.

"I don't need protectin'. I can look after myself just fine." It would all be a lot more convincing if he wasn't halfway across the room. A mere ship on Medic's horizon. Then man is taller and stronger and Scout will forget his mother's name before he forgets the feel of hands clamped around his neck. "What do they think is going on?"

Medic swallows. He appears, not slid, but shaking. And Scout realises that his very being here is making the man nervous. "I said something about a research project. About you being indispensable to RED."

"Thankyou." Scout mumbles.

"It was my responsibility." he says, just as quietly. They meet eyes, for just two seconds, and Scout looks away. What the hell is Medic trying to tell him when he looks like that? Maybe it's paranoia, and lack of sleep and the cold realisation that Sniper doesn't really want him and doesn't love him and it's all Scout's fault. Maybe that's why he's in this mood.

Medic breaks the silence, thankfully, with a polite nod. "Would you like something to drink? Caffeine might help to stimulate your blood pressure."

Very purposefully, Scout manages to take a few steps closer to the desk. He's nervous, and his palms are –not sweaty, but moist. Is he safe? Has the conflict been settled? Medic is unreadable, and his feelings on the matter are a mystery, as usual.

All Scout says is, "Sure."

As Medic moves into his office, he speaks over his shoulder. "Is coffee acceptable?"

Truth be told, he doesn't often drink it. Most of the energy he gets is from the raw sugar found in cheap drinks, but on the occasion he has it. Like when he goes home, so that Ma will think he is sophisticated. Spy likes hazelnut, and vanilla, and that figures. Sniper will have nutmeg, if anything, and Medic just likes a little sugar, plain and simple. Scout has made them all a solitary cup now and then on the rare occasion he would ever stay the night.

After a while, Scout's feet start to ache, and he manages to convince himself to take a seat, feeling very much like a schoolboy. Volumes are on the desk, along with a copy of 'To Kill A Mockingbird' and other legal documents. He thinks about English class, about never being able to articulate his thoughts and how even now, that fault haunts him. Soon after, Medic comes to him with a two mugs and a pot, and sits on the other side of the desk.

"Is it decaff, or regular?" Scout asks. It's not as if he'll sleep either way.

Medic remains looking at the floor. "It's just regular."

"No flavours? Hazelnut or vanilla?"

As if somehow personally offended, Medic clonks down the pot furiously. "Why can't Sugar be enough?" He says, foully. As soon as he lets out a breath, the anger falls right off of his face and he sighs, filling his own cup up and taking off his spectacles. He puts in three sugars and stirs with a lax wrist, and leaves Scout's plain or the boy to flavour as he wishes. "It's hot," He warns, as he passes the cup over.

Scout flinches a mile at Medic's movements, unconsciously, and it sobers them both immediately. And yet, very carefully, neither of them mention it. Despite the burn to his mouth, Scout drinks in the hopes it will alleviate the awkwardness.

"You really do look well." Medic tells him, in a quiet voice. He evades it.

"I still feel shitty, though." Bitterly, he laughs. His tongue is burning. "An' if, by 'well', you mean fuckin' swollen, then sure." He doesn't take any sugar in his drink, and stares into it, thoughtfully. It's awkward and he's still afraid that Medic will say something stupid and thoughtful and real. Scout didn't come here to feel things. He promised himself that wouldn't happen.

"I did warn you, dummkopf." Medic says, and despite himself Scout can feel this smile creeping over his features. He likes this part of Medic, that seems so harmless and sweet and sincere. He could fall in love with this part of Medic, had he not experienced the cruel and bitter and starved half.

But all Scout says is, "Takes one to know one," even though he doesn't know what 'dummkopf' means. Medic laughs, this kind of smile that breaks his resolve and he looks down for just a second like he does when he's received a compliment he doesn't agree with.

"But the difference is, I will admit to being a fool." He says. Scout can feel himself relaxing into the chair, into the situation and even Medic's presence.

"You've had more practise than I had. S'cheatin'." Another laugh. Medic takes a drink and it makes his lip go all dark. They fall short of conversation once more. "Yeah, I changed my mind again." He sighs. That's what Medic was asking in a glance, and this way he doesn't have to hear it outright. "I was so ready, an' I had the gun in mind hand an' everythin'. But I-..." his throat dries up. "An' my brother Danny, he wants a kid. I figured that was the best solution, y'know."

Medic does not do well to hide his alarm in the erratic stirring of his coffee. "Did you tell h-"

Scout throws up his hands. "No, I didn't tell him! What the hell I look like, a sieve?" he sighs. "Far as I'm concerned, this entire thing's on a need-to-know basis, an' Ma and Danny don't need to know."

They fall into silence again. Scout keeps a watchful eye on how much he has left to drink and tries to calculate how long it will take, because as soon as he has finished, he can leave. It's not that he dislikes Medic, but that Medic is primarily a doctor, and he will always end up bringing the conversation back to Scout's health, and his pregnancy. Scout misses the sex, and the carelessness. He misses feeling young again.

"You ain't the man I met two years ago." Scout says suddenly, without any indication in his voice to give a complimentary or critical edge. Maybe it's Scout who has changed. Maybe his fears were right, and this whole thing has changed him.

But Medic smiles, and says, "It's not age that does it."

"No?" Scout frowns.

Medic gives him a tired smile. "It's mileage." He says, and then halts firmly. "What did you come here to see, Scout?"

"I, uh-" He shuts his eyes as if it will relieve some of the embarrassment of being so covert all of a sudden. He hates it when Medic sets everything plain, because his life with Spy is lived through metaphor and allusions and double-entendre. Even with Sniper, he's more implicit when he speaks. Asking for everything plain is almost too intimate.

Scout swallows. "I jus' figured, y'know, that if I was gonna be givin' Danny a kid, I should, uh-...I should at least know if it's healthy and stuff." His face is all red. Red like he's ashamed of his intentions, so unused to presenting them. Medic understands. Some days, all he can claim to be is 'good intent', trailing around a battlefield with his desire to help misaligned with the arrogant independence of others.

He picks his stethoscope off of his desk and loops it around his shoulders.

-

How does Scout keep finding himself in Spy's bed? Did he jump, did he fall, or was he pushed?

In this instance, Scout would love to believed he has been pushed. He can believe anything he wants, though, it doesn't wash the scent of Spy's skin and foreign flowers from him. They're in Spy's room, naturally. It's nicer, well-kept, painted and furnished. Somehow, it looks bigger. As with Medic, there are so few personal details that the anonymity of the place is jarring. The opulence of it could have Scout believing he's in a hotel room.

There's something deliciously depraved about that.

It's not always sex. They indulge in a nice variety of activities. It suits them both, as Scout has had an unapologetic and early exposure to sex and is open to most things, where Spy likes to refine everything he does. They're both willing for practise. It means different things to both of them, but what does that matter? It's mutually satisfying, and afterwards, Scout gets to smoke, he gets to speak with a freedom that some men go their whole lives without.

And now Scout is laying over-the-covers, with his jersey on, listening to Spy dressing.

"You ever worried that somebody's gonna walk in here?" he asks, turning onto his side and watching the other man with lazy eyes. What a fantastic spine Spy has. What a fantastic everything.

Spy waves a hand carelessly. "You mean one of yours?" (As if Scout could ever possess just one of his lovers.) "Act as if we were taking a nap together." he laughs.

"Wit' your doors locked?"

Spy laughs again. He turns around and leans to give Scout a long and deep kiss, before shuffling off of the bed to button his shirt. "From what I've observed of your other relationships, my impression is that neither of them would do anything."

Scout sits up a little and rolls his eyes. "That's flatterin'."

Too quickly, Spy is leaning to rub his shoulders with these devious, practised hands and the voice in Scout's ear is like liquid sunshine. "Scout, ma belle, they know nothing would be gained from a conflict."

He laughs, this time. "Has it occurred to you that Medic is in love with me?" Yes, he knows. Maybe that's not very fair, but he's always been like this. Love doesn't mean there are obligations involved. Medic could hate him; but it's not Scout's problem.

Spy lets out a dark chuckle. "I got the feelin' you're gonna say something' awful." Scout says, smirking.

"Not at all," He is assured. "Only, boys like you are often under the impression that men are more in love with them than they really are." It's nasty, but it's true, and spy speaks as if he knows it too well. Was he a boy, like Scout,l when Sniper left him? It's just a speculation, but from that jaded look in his eyes, it's one closer to the mark. Scout does a button that rests beneath his adam's apple and shrugs.

"I wouldn't delude myself into thinkin' you was in love with me for a second." he jokes, but stares up at Spy for confirmation.

"Then you are a wise boy after all."

Spy kisses him on the nose, all sweet and innocent, which is highly unlike him, and adjusts his collar. He's very beautiful. Scout only wishes he saw the man's face more often. With a smile, Spy walks across the room and picks up his tie, draping it around his neck. It isn't love, but Jesus, Scout could get used to it. He finished his cigarette and stares at the ceiling for five solid minutes before he speaks.

"It's a girl."

"Come again?"

Scout doesn't look at Spy because he doesn't think he has the stamina to. "This kid's a girl." He says, quietly. "Somebody else might as well know."

Spy nods, and he looks a little paler. It doesn't register with Scout until later that what might be troubling Spy is the image of a little girl with Scout's face and his genes wandering through the earth sometime soon. That doesn't sit right with him at all, but he manages a smile. "Congratulations, I suppose."

Scout barks out a laugh. "Yeah, lucky me." He says. But there's no laugh from Spy, no visible reaction at all to observe. He gives Scout a sure smile and another packet of Egyptian cigarettes 'for his time'. It isn't until later, when Scout is washing the sins from his hands that he remembers how Spy's hands were shaking.

-

See, what surprises him more than anything is how the team start to treat him on the field.

Scout had been sure they would patronise him, tell him he wasn't quick or fast or accurate enough, so it was better to call it a day and still have some dignity. He was so sure that they would resent him for it. Men like Soldier don't exercise restraint or sympathy when it comes at the cost of victory. And yet-...

And yet, Scout has an entire team behind him.

It's not something he even considered. But out on the field, it's impossible to ignore. Even as he's going out for the first intelligence run, which is now much more of a jog, he notices the sentry set-up that's further out than usual, and he notices the red dot of Sniper's rifle never strays too far from him, as if marking the spot.

What sticks with him most is being halfway to the intelligence, literally down the corridor from the suitcase, and hearing the sharp march of an enemy Soldier. Scout freezes and sticks himself to the wall. He clamps a hand over his mouth to mute his breathing and stays very, very still, as if cloaked.

He can smell burning though, and it's really bothering him. Not just the kind of burning from a zippo lighter, but something nastier. A grander combustion, and as the back of the BLU Soldier makes itself present right in front of Scout. he wonders if he'll be fast enough to shoot and run without being seen.

As he reaches for his gun, he freezes stock-still. The mutter in his ear is like a full-scale orchestra, and even though it's just on his left side it;'s as if Administration is screaming at him: 'we have taken the enemy intelligence'.

BLU Soldier whips around and might raise a hand, or do something. Like, actually killing Scout,. but his eyes go wide and he makes a very high keening sound. Black blood pours from his lips and he slumps forwards before coming to rest as a heap on the ground. Pyro is the only thing behind him, with a raised axe that's as bloody as the BLU. He nods to Scout, and mumbled.

"Brrdhh, tmmghhr." Which, naturally, means virtually nothing to Scout.

He leans hard on the wall and lets out an enormous breath. "Jesus," he mutters, "Thanks, man."

Around the corner, Spy emerges with the Intelligence. He is no worse for wear at all, and Scout can imagine him having slipped down here of virtually no consequence. His smile is warm and patient. The cigarette between his lips is unlit and he nods to Pyro in good nature. "Would you?" And the masked man obliges him with a swift ignition. Scout gets given the briefcase. "Will you take it?"

Scout shakes his head. "Not a chance. BLU's got in in for me." But he doesn't let go of it. They're speaking very quietly, aware that the BLU Soldier will return with a vengeance that goes beyond colour. Spy takes the words in, and takes out his cigarettes case, before giving Scout a once-over. In a second, they're identical.

"Haste, mon lapin," He says, and then departs with a speed that Scout used to laugh at but now misses. What is he, if he isn't fast? Has he been gutted of everything worthwhile in his sleep, one night? It doesn't bear thinking about when Spy is already gone and Pyro is nudging him urgently. So Scout doesn't ask questions and puts the Intel on his back.

They go as swiftly as they came. And after what feels like a national history of defeats, they pull it together. In the locker room, there's not a complaint heard. The only place Soldier isn't fully insane is the battlefield, but even at Base, he can only use smug proverbs of victory. Before he starts to get undressed, even Demo claps him on the back with a half-sober grin and mutters something about 'quality play from yer, lad'.

It's nice. Too nice. Scout didn't even do anything. and instead of heading down to dinner feeling proud of himself, or even good, he ends up standing in front of the mirror when everybody else has left the locker room, staring at himself. Sure, he does look well. Better than he has done in a long time. His hair is thicker than it's ever been, and wont stop glowing. There's colour in his face, high into his cheeks like he's seen the kindness of a foreign sun.

Maybe he should be paralysed by that. By the support of everybody else, and yet, he stands there completely paralysed by his own uselessness.

The pin-up girl on the calendar appears to be laughing at him. Scout has a birthday coming up. And it's only going to get worse.

-

Scout doesn't sleep for a week after he goes to see Medic.

Every single night, he wakes horrified, sweating furiously under his covers with the scream of a girl in his ears. It's real and it's scaring him to death and he's suffering so badly that he actually passes out at dinner once, and on the sofa in the Rec room. The rest of them notice, by which time Scout considers murdering everybody else, or himself. He thinks hard about begging a lobotomy out of Medic, just to quiet the screaming.

He hears the terror in quiet moments, and it's so terrifying and utterly paralysing that he catches Medic between lovers on a thursday afternoon because sleep deprivation is a form of torture and he does this to himself, you know.

When Medic sees him, the man softens. Melts like butter. Scout never really notices the effects he has on people, but goddamn. "I'm afraid I can still only offer you sugar." He says, with this little smile that's just as soft. Scout leans heavy in the doorframe as if he's about to be bowled over.

"I'm not here for coffee, Doc." He says. Lifts a hand to his and realises that he's going to sound ridiculous and foolish and pathetic. None of that softness disappears, though, and if he's going to do this, better now than to Spy and have the man laugh at him. "I jus'...I ain't sleepin' much lately."

Unfortunately, what he fears most is what he hears. "I can't prescribe you anything, Scout." Medic sounds awfully remorseful. that's the last thing Scout needs. It won't stop the screaming in his ears, and the errant little kicks that reminds him every damn day. It's not going to keep that quiet. "Sleeplessness is usually a later symptom, but it can happen earlier."

Scout cannot bear it. "Doc." He pleads, his voice pinched, as if trapped under the weight of his anxieties. "Doc, I need your help. Please." And he never asks twice, never says please. How can he be refused.

But medic just gives him those sad-eyes and another bullshit excuse. "I do wish there was more I could do, but there isn't. It's normal to be apprehensive at this stage." Normal. How dare he use that word? How dare he have it slip out of his mouth like a stuttering apology, past the same lips Scout has dared to kiss?

Scout chokes. "Normal." He echoes, bleakly, and then stares at the floor. "Is it-..." Jesus, he might actually break. It's so had to speak. To actually say it. All that time Scout had thought he was something fierce, completely washed away in a single glancing blow. "Is it normal to hear her scream?"

Medic's eyes just get sader.

"In the shower. At dinner. At night. Is that app-ree-hen-sieve enough for ya? Izat normal?" He swallows, and Medic doesn't say anything, which is good, because he won't hear it. Scout closes his eyes and says. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

Medic is thrown by that. He blinks, slowly, and takes off his spectacles as if trying to visually focus in on an object. But Scout's words are plain and crisp. He can read the boy just fine. The man swallows and just says, "Did I hear you correctly, liebe?"

"Sure," Scout says, folding his arms. He makes no motion to move from the doorframe. "That way, when I wake up in a cold sweat, under the covers, hearin' her scream -you can tell me it's 'normal'. S'just nerves, that's all."

-

"I wanna get drunk."

"What?"

Would you believe that these kind of thoughts are what wake Sniper up in the smallest hours of the morning. He turns over two see a pair of shining, intense eyes that belong to the boy lying next to him. Being pregnant has made Scout cuddlier, sure, and that is largely a good thing. But he also had the nasty habit of kicking Sniper in the shins if he's being kept up by the same sensation. And, sure as the sun rises, he can feel the kid's toes digging in to an already-forming bruise.

"I said," Scout yawns. "I wanna get drunk. Like, real paralytic." He sounds awfully serious. How can he even access his cognitive faculties this early? Sniper groans, and paws at his night stand blindly until the lamp clicks and flickers into life. It burns his eyes, but shuts Scout up, who groans dramatically and throws a pillow over his face. "Aw, you dick."

"You wanna get drunk, I'll let ya." Sniper stares at him. The kid's face is till behind the pillow, so he tears it away, grumbling. "I wanna sleep, ya shit. Y'gonna let me?" When he finally winds, he can see Scout's face in the light. It is white from the light but a dark purple under his eyes. With a hand, he takes the kid's face and grumbles some more. "You ain't been sleepin'?"

"I can't," Scout says, despondently. "Lemme go, man, you got dirty-ass hands." It makes Sniper chuckle, and he keeps to the boy's request and sighs, lying back onto his side and staring at him.

"You scared?" He asks him, gesturing to Scout's stomach. Scout is never without a shirt because of it, and he's running out of shirts.

"No," Scout scoffs.

"You lyin'?"

Quieter, more resigned: "Yeah."

So Sniper tries to reassure him with a wavering smile, and he sighs. "You know I was pissed when ya told everybody. But it's happened now. Jus' like this kid's happening now." Scout looks at the ceiling like he's conflicted. he's too young to be looking like that.

In an even quieter voice, he says, "S'a girl, y'know."

That knocks the wind right out of Sniper. He swallows, and tries to hide his initial shock with a straight face. "That so?" He says, striving for a breezy tone.

"Yeah," Scout says. "Medic told me an' all." He looks hesitantly at his partner for conformation, and nods, slightly.

"Y'got names picked out, then?" It sounds as if he's joking, but really, he's fishing. Sniper tries to act uninterested, but it's hard to not be. Half of his genetic code could already be invested, so the stakes are naturally high. Scout laughs.

"O'course. Always prepared, I am."

Sniper snorts. "You aren't prepared for wakin' up, most days. Great procrastinator's what you are." Them, softer. "What y'callin her, then?"

Scout smiles, serenely. "Moira. After my Ma."

"S'nice." He says, woodenly. "She gonna be a Mundy or a Janvier or-"

"Fuck off." Scout cackles. "None of you's gonna get a look in. I'm the one doin' all the work." When he settles, he looks at Sniper again, all serious, and says. "Moira Weiss. That sound good?"

The anxiety in the kid's voice is clear. He switches the lamp off and settles back down once more. "Sounds like it's gonna happen anyway, kid."

Eventually, Scout falls asleep, and he doesn't stir or fuss or rouse. He stays good and sleeping until the morning. The same cannot be said for Sniper, who remains staring at the wall for his own private eternity. His mouth is dry with the word 'Moira' and he keeps thinking how funny it all is. How proud his mother would be. How ashamed his father would be.

And how uncertain he is about how the hell to feel.


	15. XV

Danny is the middle child. He is middle in every sense of the word. Three older brothers and four younger ones will do that to a person. Danny was not the first to get married, or the last to move away, or even the biggest disappointment: that honour was bestowed to Scout.

But he is everything Scout believes in.

Their relationship is working at best. It's not that Scout actively dislikes him or even vice versa, but simply that they share very few interests. Perhaps the only overlapping passion is for baseball, and even then, while Scout pays some attention to the MLB, Danny likes college baseball. And while Scout is a decent batter, and a good runner, but lousy at pitching and any kind of fieldwork, Danny is mediocre at everything.

He knows they have nothing to talk about. That they share nothing but the rising bitterness and inflamed sense of betrayal every time they see Jeb at family gatherings, or the way Ma's voice goes all whimsical when she talks about him. They both know what it's like to get a raw deal.

Scout knows because he's still getting it.

He calls after dinner in the week. Maybe it's to avoid questions from interested parties, or because he can't stand to be looked at in the way they have started to look at him: this mix of curiosity and apprehension and pity. He doesn't want pity, it serves him no good. And it doesn't suit them to sit around looking like that, it isn't honest. Not to them. Not to men of action.

And so he winds up at the payphone once more, with a number scratched into a bit of paper folded in his pocket. He doesn't wonder what time it is in Boston. He doesn't care. This is his lifeline, and it isn't much but he'll be damned if he doesn't grab it -he'll be damned if he lets himself drown in their pity. the change feels sweaty in his hand, and the only thing to do with it is to suck up his nerves and make the call.

It takes seven clicks of the dialtone before the phone is answered. "Yes?" No time for pleasantries, then. It must be Danny's wife, and Scout feels a spike of shame scald his insides when he realises that he doesn't remember her name. All he can remember is that she's a blonde: picked fresh from the identical slew his brothers so often went for. The ones with the same bark as Ma, and the same bite, so that the writing on the marriage certificate almost always reads 'Oedipus Rex'. "Yeah?"

Scout swallows. "Uh, is Danny -is he there?"

The voice sweetens, but only by an inch. "Oh, Scout." She says. "We ain't heard from you since last christmas. No, he ain't here." Scout feels his chest sink at that. He doesn't want to lie to her. Somehow it's easier, and more comfortable to lie to Danny. It's not like they'd believe him if he told the truth anyway, even if he was pushed to. Sighing, he rubs his stomach, thinking about what he's offering. Really thinking. "What was it you wanted?"

"I can call back some other time." He says, quickly. "It ain't important. I'll –I'll call some other time, yeah?" Before Scout can pull away from the receiver, he hears a shout and freezes in his movements, ready to hang up. Danny's wife is frantic while she speaks again.

"Please," She says, "Jus' hang on. Moira said you knew somebody." The name throws him off for a minute. Scout can feel his breath restricting and his mouth drying out. As usual around dinner, he can feel familiar stirrings and does everything to ignore it. The conversation is awkward anyway. "Moira said you-...she said you were gonna help Danny get a baby."

'Even if he doesn't want one', Scout muses to himself, ironically. He leans on the phonebox. "Yeah." He says, very quietly. "Yeah, that's right." On the other end of the phone, a squeal of delight is heard.

"You serious?" She near-whispers, betraying the latent excitement all the way across the line. His silence is her answer. "Jesus, you are!" Of course Scout can't say anything. He lets her speak. It seems to be for the best as Danny's wife can't seem to regulate her breathing. "What, you –you knock a girl up or somethin'?"

Well, that catches Scout like a tidal wave in the shallows. He hasn't had to lie in so long it actually makes him laugh. "Sure," He says, but only because he has to.

"An' she's okay wit' you –wit' givin' the kid to us?" Jesus Christ, she sounds so happy. So unbelievably happy. Nobody was happy here, that's for sure, and while he could be bitter about it, the joy of Danny's wife is what he needs. It's nice to have his faith rewarded. Nice to know that somebody else cares.

Scout feels himself laughing. Feels the smile on his face, real and right and not plastered over like so many times thesedays. "Yeah," He says again. "I know Danny's a good guy. I jus' figured you guys'd be able to, y'know, raise the kid right an' stuff." He stuffs one hand into his pocket bashfully.

Not that he has ever said it, but Scout is terrified of what kind of parent he'd make. He never met his father, was never favoured by his mother. What has he to pass on, if nobody taught him anything? More than anything, Scout is scared that this is all for the best. That what he's trying to protect the child from is himself. "It's for the best." Breezily, Scout nods to himself.

"Y'seem sure." Danny's wife says. But, of course she would. He can hear the joy in the tilt of her voice when she talks. "I can't tell you how long I wanted a baby for. It's so good of you, Scout, it's...-"

"Yeah," Scout says, sharply. "It ain't a big deal."

"Sure it is!" She says, despite Scout's intention. "An' you an' your girl can come visit whenever you want, I'll make sure. This means-...this means the world to me, an' I know it does to Danny, too..." she sounds as if she might cry. If she does, Scout will hang up, because he won't know what to do, and lately he's very affected by things. His mood changes so quickly, and he usually doesn't have a good reason for it.

"Please," Scout says, quietly. "Don't mention it. Really." It seems to pull Danny's wife from her breakdown.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to embarrass you or nothin'." Her voice grows soft. She pauses, as if conflicted, and then speaks in a tiny voice. "Can I ask about your girl?"

Scout's guard comes up. "As ya like." He says, sharply, expecting to have to fabricate a woman with Sniper's eyes, and Spy's laugh. The lie never comes.

"How far gone is she?"

He pauses. Swallows. Tries his best not to blush but Scout is embarrassed. He wishes somebody else could make this phonecall. "Uh, I ain't-" He tries to remember what Medic had said, but he never listens hard enough. "I ain't certain. I guess about five months? Maybe six?" Looking down, Scout figures that can't be right. That isn't too far over halfway, and he can't even see his feet because he looks like he swallowed a soccer ball.

Danny's wife speaks with a smile painted over her words. "So she knows what she's havin'? She tell you?"

"Yeah, she does." Scout says, softly. "An' yeah, she did."

"Can I-"

"Girl." He says, tired. He wants to hang up, and go inside and smoke and swear. To feel young again, because a thousand years have passed between being carefree and wanted to the present. And he always swore his breath would turn silver when his hair did.

Danny's wife says, "She'll be here so soon. I feel like I hardly have time to –well, that don't matter. I'll tell Danny tonight. Y'call back around-"

"I can't," Scout lies without a care, "I won't be able to get to a phone, but tell him all the same." He sighs again and shuts his eyes. "I jus' really gotta go."

"Oh," She says. "If you're sure.."

He wants to scream, but says instead, "I'm sure. Goodnight an' all. I'll be seein' ya."

Scout hangs up before she can say goodbye. His face is burning like a violet dwarf star, radiating his shame, and his lungs feel prickly as he breathes in, and tries to think of something else. Where is the victory he craves? Just a conquest would solve his mood. A cheap, no-thrills fuck, and Scout wouldn't mind where or how –hell, the whole team can bring popcorn if they want. If only somebody would lean in to him like they used to, look at him all starry-eyed like he was Marlon Brando and tell how much they wanted him.

Scout misses the days when 'love' was for his highest bidder. Now, he has to wonder if he imagined it.

-

Slipped in the slits of his locker the next morning, Scout finds a letter from administration, requesting him to finish his paperwork, and reminding him he has three weeks of 'field work' left before going 'on leave'. It's the only time Scout has ever had cause to gather all of his lover at once and to be honest, it's quite overwhelming.

After hours, Medic makes the ceremonious gesture and warms the Infirmary up half-a-degree as if to attempt to create a pleasant atmosphere. Really, it doesn't matter what he does. Scout knows as soon as he strolls down there by himself that the awkwardness will be stifling. His Ma always used to say that picturing people naked helped calm stagefright, but right now Scout suspects it might be more detrimental than beneficial.

Fortunately, he is the first arrival, catching Medic as he strips down from the full coat to simply a shirt and tie. Which, to Scout, seems somehow more outrageous and revealing than all of the bare skin in the world would. The smile he gives Scout says everything, so open and real that it earns him what Scout says next.

"It's you." He says, sitting down, shoving his dusty shoes onto Medic's desk with a little hesitance. Before he didn't care, because before if Medic got mad, he'd throw Scout against a wall and they'd rut and probably fuck. Now, it could turn out like that, or Medic could really kill him.

The would-be-killer turns around and graces him with eyes so struck and pure that they'd make bleach blush. "What was that, liebe?"

Scout licks his lips, out of slight nerves. "It's you. This whole 'respective partner' thing."

And he leans back, looking right down. "It was never gonna be anyone else." Maybe it's his experience or wisdom, but Medic isn't at all vexed by the gravity or deep unhappiness from which Scout speaks, but takes only the best from the boy.

He says, "Thank you, I suppose." He says, with a certainty that extends beyond any 'supposing' one could ever. And Medic goes back around his desk, sitting back in his chair and looking right at Scout, not in the way he does sometimes that's biological, not with the distance of a surgeon and his specimen but something so very intimate that even Scout feels tense despite the only contact between them being that of the eye.

So Scout says, "Y'ever wonder what made me pick you?" He leans forward a little, and flashes his teeth in a smile.

The look he's given is a little vacant. "I don't understand." Medic says.

"C'mon, Doc, I could'a had any of 'em. You never wondered what I figured was special about you?" He grins. Scout is rarely honest, because he never considers it to be worth much. When he is, it's not Shakespeare, but it is completely unedited or sweetened, entirely unbiased by anything but Scout's way of speaking.

"Yes," Medic laughs. "I wonder constantly."

He owes Medic this much. Their lack of intimacy astounds Scout. The dry spell between them is more strident than Teufort in July, and he misses it as he misses the smell of the man, or the way he looks when he's crawling across a mattress all starry-eyed and satiated. "I figure it's 'cause you're...you're, like, you never judge me when I say stuff. Even if it's really stupid." He lets out a breath. "Even if you can be a retentive asshole, I'd still pick you to talk ta, anyday."

Flushed with pride, Medic can only manage a murmur. "Thank-you, Scout."

"Shut-up for a second." Breaking the softness of his tone down the middle, Scout holds up a hand. It won't prepare Medic for anything, not with the way his eyes are still all soft, but Scout will be damned if he doesn't try. "Y'think there's anythin' that would cause, like, us never to speak, or somethin' like that?"

"Irreconcilable differences?" Medic offers him, thankfully sounding a little less sweet and a little more cautious.

"Yeah, that." Nodding, Scout waves his hand again. "Y'think that could happen to us?"

A small laugh. "I think that's only for marriages, mausi."

"Doc, c'mon."

The pause is longer, this time, hot and heavy with thoughts that are as disastrous as cloud rankings amassing on the eastern front, or the sound of a 'just this once'. Medic looks at him very seriously after some consideration and says, "No, not for me."

"Good, 'cause I'm about to say somethin' really stupid." Lightning crackles through the boy's words, just as electric as his nerves because Scout usually doesn't care for honesty, and when he does he's terrified it will cut him deeper than any man ever could. "I really think I'm in love with-"

"Herr Spy." Medic straightens immediately, plastering on that tolerant smile he gives everyone during physicals week, or when somebody is being particularly difficult. His eyes flick to Scout for just a second, in some kind of apology that he couldn't give a larger warning, or give the boy room for his heart. "Please," He says, "Take a seat."

And Spy does, with absolutely no intention of staying. Before speaking, he reads the entire situation, and Scout is all stiff with shame that the man might know what he was about to say.

"This isn't going to take long, is it?" It's directed towards Scout with the implication that Medic isn't there at all. The men have never been best of anything, and Scout always figured it was the situational circumstances that did it: Spy never really allows himself to be vulnerable, but during an examination, it's impossible not to. What should he look to like about being undressed and interrogated?

Still, all false-generosity and duplicity, Medic smiles to him. "I would think that dependent on your co-operation."

Scout doesn't like to pretend he's a great reader of people, but he knows when glances make the same motion as stabbings, and when smiles are like open wounds. It's so tense it pushes him to strive for a casual tone. "It won't take long."

Spy bites right away. "Good," He says, "I usually find the less time I spend here, the better my health is."

From across the desk, Medic makes a derisive voice that he does nothing to cover. Men of action, Scout thinks, reduced to their words. It's a little sad. "Then I'm glad to see you're still well enough to smoke and stab. Should I recall correctly," He licks his lips, "That is your purpose, isn't it?"

"Temper, temper," In a smoky voice, Spy laughs at him. It isn't going well at all. Scout wants to asphyxiate all over again. "I shouldn't like to wear you out-"

With a sigh, Scout clicks his tongue like he remembers Ma doing when she'd had enough of her sons. "Yeah, alright, shut up." He says, with the same mean streak she always used. "I heard enough outta both of you. Ya can't fake like you can stand eachother, then you can stay silent." Leaning further back in his chair, scout shuts his eyes. Time doesn't usually pass this slowly. Or maybe it just feels like two-hundred years.

The most surprising part is that they actually do what Scout had told them. Medic picks his copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' off of his desk and begins to read. Spy rolls his own cigarettes. They wait for seven minutes before the last party makes his appearance. Of course Spy doesn't turn, but speaks anyway.

"Oh, joy," He says, in a pained tone. "Why don't you join us?"

So Sniper does. He sits, leaning forward a little like he does when he's listening. Medic starts talking, but Scout can't manage to listen. It's not a paradigm he's ever encountered before. Sniper is pleasant to Medic, but passive to Spy, who is hostile to everybody but Scout. What the hell is he supposed to do? Scout figures he should just shut up and keep quiet, because it isn't worth starting a fight here, where he'd surely lose.

When he realises he's been asked a question, Scout blinks, and scratches his neck. "What?"

They're all looking at him now. "Do you have a preference for who you'd like to be listed?"

Scout has said to Medic in good, plain English that it's always been him. That it could never be anybody else -can he really see anybody else as willing or able? Yet, asked in front of an audience to intimate, Scout isn't sure what to say. Would Spy be grateful, or angry? Hell, would he care? Maybe Scout can sleep his way out of most things, but he's always had a hard time reading people.

He'd list Medic, without a shadow of a doubt, but what comes out of his mouth so suddenly is, "Naw, I don't mind."

"Well, I cannot." Spy says, right away. Of course he's the first out of the gate. It's not as if he's Scout's first or last, but that still hurts. How fast he can cut his ties, even ones like Scout, with whom he whispers to, who he trusts. Who is supposed to matter. Scout musters a look that begs 'ne me quitte pas'. Nobody questions him.

Sniper's voice is like a half-raised flag, and the first words are missed. "It ain't a personal thing, I'd just rather not." Of course, Spy's refusal doesn't surprise Scout, because the man probably has many reasons beyond just objections, but Sniper certainly doesn't, and it is most certainly personal. He doesn't trust Scout. Not that he was ever asked to, but Scout wishes, privately, that he might be worth more to him than that. "Settled?"

"It would seem so."

Later, when they are alone, Medic stands, wandering into his office. He speaks over his shoulder. "You look like you could use something hot, Kleiner," so, Scout stays. It isn't so bad in the Infirmary. The doves whistle a little, but it's very easy to become accustomed to, and it isn't so cold with a coffee. Perhaps it's just the isolation from everybody else that Scout doesn't much like. Though, he can see how it suits Medic. On return, he sits down. "Sugar?"

"Lots of sugar," Scout looks at him. They both know what he's really saying. "More than enough." It's enough to make Medic do that silly, shy smile that doesn't suit a man of his age, the same that can be seen over the rim of the cup when he drinks.

It tastes better, sweeter, but the drink loses all flavour when Medic says, "You were going to say something. Before."

"Was I?" Scout swallows. "I don't remember that."

Scout remembers it in full detail.

"You were-"

He waves a dismissive hand. "I'm really tired," He says. This is a lie that has saved him from having to spill his insides more than once, and it remains useful. "If I remember, I'll tell ya some other time, yeah?" Scout rises to go, and Medic reaches out and grabs his hand.

It's startling. Scout would retract it, if not for that damn look on Medic's face. He doesn't speak German, but it's one of those few emotions that translates perfectly.

"I really am tired," He says.

"Stay the night."

Scout whimpers. "I'll wake you up if I have a bad dream,"

"I'll get back to sleep."

"But you'll be mad tomorrow if you don't."

"I can live with that."

Medic squeezes his hand gently and Scout wonders what he came to see with Medic when this started. He never expected it to be like this. He never expected to matter to the man.

"It hurts when I smile."

Medic lets go of his hand, and nods. "You can go, Scout." He says, quietly.

So he goes.

-

Scout's embarrassing admission is simple: he's sure he loves Sniper.

Not the kind of love that he's told anybody about, but the kind that has him sleepwalking to Sniper's door, laughing at his dumb jokes. It has him seeking the man's proximity, catching eyes at the table and passing eachother in respawn with a dumb smile that he has to scrub off of his face before anybody can see.

He's never felt like this before, and he doesn't know how to explain it. In words, he figures it would be like 'I do', even though in reality they never could, so the most Scout ever hopes for is to hold Sniper's hand while they walk through Walmart, even though he wants church bells. He wants Jesus on his knees.

Scout never asks for much, but he does want it to last. Wants shitty stories about them told to teenagers. About how looks across ivy-covered balustrades were so fierce, they sent sparks which could set the whole of middle-america ablaze, and leave the infidels smoulder in the cornfields. And about how Scout wants to feel him like nails through wood –is that really, really creepy?

(Then let them also talk about how Scout wants to make him breakfast. About how he wants to get up early and make peanut-butter sandwiches despite the fact when he was six, he nearly choked to death on one, but hey, Sniper likes peanut butter, and he likes Sniper.)

Two days later, he manages to find words separate from 'I do' when they're laying in bed together. "Sniper?" He murmurs, and the man lifts his head sharply and looks at him. He swallows hard and says, "I was wrong before."

"You were?"

It's now or never. It's sex or love. Casual or serious. Do or don't. Scout used to figure life was life, and that how he got along wasn't important because he always went with it. It's only recently he's come to believe that there's always some kind of decision to be made, even if it's just oatmeal or cereal. And Scout decides he needs to say it, before it eats him alive.

"Before, when you asked what we were. An' I told you we were sex. I was wrong." It only seems to come out one syllable at a time, and the longer he's speaking for, the harder it is to get words out. Sniper's lips breathe a slice of air, and his gunpowder-grey pupils are shrinking, sinking ships in blue oceans.

"Okay," the man says, slowly.

Scout explodes into passion. "It's not okay! It was a shitty thing t'say, but that's only 'cause I didn't know better, an' I figure I know what I shoulda said now." He lets out a shuddering breath. "What the right thing woulda been."

Nothing is given away in Sniper's expression, but he comes to sit up on the bed. Scout hisses, and squeezes his eyes shut like somebody is dismantling a bomb, and they don't know which wire to cut. His hands are shaking, but eventually, he snips and opens his mouth. "It ain't sex, it's love."

Sniper goes stock-still, and then turns, very stiffly. His mouth is set in a line as grim as a tombstone. He points a nasty finger at Scout. "Are you fuckin' wit' me, kid?" When he doesn't get a reply, he inches forward., causing Scout to scramble back. "Are you?"

"Naw, I'm bein' serious!" He speaks in the same way a man falls over: with too much haste. Scout doesn't know how to feel when Sniper lets out a bitter little laugh, and shakes his head.

"You manipulative little shit." the man sneers. "I would have given you anything to tell me that. Anything!" Scout whimpers. It's shame and fear that paralyses him, and he can only watch. "You-" A sharp noise halts him, but not for very long. "You let me believe you loved me-"

"I didn't lead you on! I didn't do shit!" Scout rises, at last. He won't be intimidated. Not again. "How was I supposed to know how you felt?" There's a tension high in his spine that's giving rise to pain, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he continues. "You don't talk to me, an' now you say I lead you on? You tell me you don't want to see me, so you fuck Spy? That's how you're gonna play this?!"

"You knew." In a very low growl, Sniper grins out the words and makes powder of what might once have been life. "You knew how I felt."

It's enough. "Don't you pin this on me!" Scout hisses. "Y'think your 'feelins' are more important than mine? Or this kid?" It's all this messing around with his biology that's to blame, but Scout can feel himself go all hot, he feels his nose prickling and his eyes begin to water and he'll lose everything if Sniper sees him cry. That's the worst thing he could do.

But it's too late. Furiously, he lets a single, fat tear fall like an exit wound. "I thought you was different. Jesus, I thought you was gonna save me for this. You're no different from wifebeaters, an' womanhaters, you know that?"

Sniper is looking at the floor. "I was good to you. I let it continue, even after I knew you were a nasty slut of a-"

"Slut, huh?" Scout laughs a derisive laugh. "I was your 'sweetheart' when you were sweet to me. You weren't good to me, you were usin' me!"

"Usin' you for what?! I ain't the one using feelin' t'get-"

Scout turns on him. He's still crying. It doesn't matter. A heart full of love is heavier, and when it goes, it falls hard. "At least I treated you like a goddamned person! If you weren't callin' me 'kid', you were makin' me out to be a concept. Like I was gonna complete you. So what if you thought I loved you! It's real-..." A shudder of resentment passes through him. "It's real shitty of you to assign me your peace of mind when I ain't found mine."

Silence explodes like the day Hiroshima did and the only trace of Scout will be his shadow soon enough. Scout is poisoned by it all, not just the blame, but the fallout from months of Sniper feeling this way and worst of all, by the most toxic of any substance: his own love. Jesus, Scout feels like such a fool to have ever figured about Sniper the way he did. He curses it all, the stories they'd tell, the hand-holding in Walmart, and every last peanut-butter sandwich.

"You were wrong, before." Sniper says, at last, but he's not facing Scout any more. His voice is opaque to the hearing, and Scout wonders if this means anything at all to the man until he sees his shoulders sagging. Until he notices that Sniper might be ready to cry, too. "You might not have loved me, but you thought you were invincible."

Nobody breathes. The silence is too radioactive. "Maybe we were just sex to you. Maybe it didn't mean a thing. But you were wrong in thinkin' I could never hurt you." Slowly, the man walks over to the door and opens it, before letting an old, white shirt, one that's too small to be his, crumple onto the desert floor. "I jus' did."

Scout can't fight him. He's fought so damn much, and he's tired. He's not sure he'll survive another battle. Very slowly, he walks to the door. Leaning n his toes, he grasps Sniper's shoulder and kisses him, hard on the cheek, pressing his eulogy and his tears onto the skin with it. When he walks, he doesn't look back. He doesn't dare, but instead, keeps forward on the long walk back to base.

He wishes he could forget.

-

Just between Scout, Spy, and a bottle of wine, eh might be a little drunk. After a long spell of not drinking, it gets to you more, and it's only catalysed by distress until Scout is laughing too loudly at a joke he can't remember and doesn't get just because, goddamn, he needs to laugh.

Spy looks at him with something close to pity. "Quiet, cher," He whispers. "You're going to wake somebody up."

"Good," He smiles. It still hurts to: still pains him like a stab wound and soon enough he's smiling even harder because he deserves the pain. "I want 'em to wake up. I want 'em to see me."

"I can see you fine." Spy remarks. It does no good.

"No," Scout mumbles. "No, I want them to see me. I wanna be seen all the time. I want 'em to want to." He leans forward again, still very shaky, and Spy realises that the boy is trembling, not with the giddiness of a good drink but with something uglier, and with a longer recovery period.

"I do not understand you." he says, so Scout erupts once more.

"I'm gonna die alone!" He announces. Jesus, he's laughing, and with large movements, he puts a hand on his heart and strives to fit his smile over the gaping agony in his chest. "I'm alone, and my heart hurts –an'...an'...I'm not-" Scout's smile falls off so fast that he has no time to hide the plain look of hurt on his face. Spy recognises it, because he feels it, too. Sometimes the crime of passion is not realising the passion until it is too late.

Scout falls forward and covers his face. "I ain't happy, Spy." He mumbles. What the hell can spy do about it? He rubs the boy's shoulders, and says nothing. Scout never stays with him. That isn't their deal, that isn't their game. If Scout is having a crisis, he will listen, and laugh at the right times and be silent at other times. But, realistically, he can do nothing but stand by.

"It will pass," He says. The phrase is empty even to his ears. And Scout has every right to object when he speaks.

"What if it don't?" He whimpers. "What if I gotta see his eyes on my kid, every day? What if I gotta live with the scars on my stomach?" there will be no reminiscing there. They both know it, so it doesn't need to be said. Scout is afraid, and while that's valid, it's redundant, because there's nothing that can be done, now. The boy raises a few fingers. "I'll...I'm awright. I jus' need-..." He gets up, and leaves the sentences there.

Spy lets him go without a word.

And that's how Scout ends up pounding on the Infirmary door. It takes a while before he hears grumbling, and it opens. Leaning heavy on it, Scout nearly falls onto the floor, but is caught by a steadier and stronger pair of hands. It's not sniper, but that isn't what he came here for, and it's comforting all the same, even though the eyes on him are tired.

Medic stands him and shakes his head. "You are in no state to be awake," he notes, leading the boy further in, through his office and into his room. Scout staggers behind him all the way and takes his clothes off, leaves them in a scruffy pile and leans on the bedframe.

When Medic turns back around, he gets the fright of his life, and remains motionless with clear alarm. He lifts a hand as if to speak, but cannot seem to muster it.

"I'll be good," Scout promises him, drowsily. "Jus' so long as you turn off the lights."

Medic doesn't tolerate it. He just climbs into the bed and adjusts the covers. "Don't be daft, spatzi." He murmurs. "Come to sleep."

So Scout does. And that, alone, is more intimate than all the sex they've ever had.


	16. XVI

Scout remembers his first haircut at RED.

Like the last of the leaves clinging on, it drifted lifelessly to settle on his shoulders, and down his front, and gathering in the nape of his neck to make a fantastically itchy necklace. Not only his first haircut: but Scout's first summer, having only scarcely survived the blistering middays without suffering heat exhaustion, wound up in a room that was not his.

Soldier talked him into it: not an occurrence that happens often.

But it did happen, and Scout sat, chatting idly about something or other as the shaver disappeared into hair that once suggested at being blond but changed it's mind over time. Strips fell like lifeless leaves and it was over before Scout could object. Soldier mentioned words like 'sensible' and 'painless'. But, upon looking at the work done, neither seemed applicable.

The sides were gone, for the most part, but the top was still thick, and it curled over with the way of the fringe. It looked like feathers. He was beyond reason.

They had teased him to no end for it. Think of that!-a haircut, and nothing more, but the team had used it to pick at wounds Scout had never noticed. Medic started it. Called him 'spatz'; which meant sparrow, and maybe that was Medic's way of flirting or maybe it was just human nature. Whatever the intention, Scout came away feeling more like a mascot than a member of RED.

What struck him most was the vanity. Scout had never thought about how he appeared much –how desirable he was, before. He'd never needed to. Girls were easy when you were athletic enough, or charming enough, if you made them all sorts of promises. He realised that what had changed was not him, but his circumstances. To the others, the most Scout could hope to be was not new or pretty, or a fixer of any problem. The most he could hope to be was pretty.

Ever since, Scout has managed to find razors or scissors, or even the blunt of a knife to cut away at anything too long. But in recent days it has grown longer and thicker and shinier and he has no other choice. He watches the black-and-white television in the Rec room and waits for Soldier after dinner. The past occupies his mind mostly, so he flicks through the channels, enjoying the way the images change so quickly, and how the words die before they reach him.

After a while, it starts to irritate the others. Leaning in his chair all one-handed, Engineer gives him a glance."Son, you done makin' a racket?"

Scout knows Engineer is cleverer than him, and has been here longer. But the thing is, he feels like he's the worst–knows it, in fact, so he must act like he's the best. So he flicks up the volume until it becomes painful and shouts over his shoulder."I can't hear ya."He shrugs.

"Boy-..." Engineer won't get angry with him. If he does, that will be something new, because the man can usually hold his temper pretty well, even if Scout has set out to get a rise from him. He likes to push Engineer especially, because from the way the man laughs at his sentry kills, he's got a real mean streak. "Dammnit, son!"

That throws Scout off for sure. He sighs, dramatically, and flicks the television off, leaning back onto the couch. It's not at all comfortable: the armrests belching stuffing from nights of being picked at nervously, and hard, solid springs that do nothing but make the cushions lump. Though, it hardly matters. Scout could be sitting on a deep leather sofa and he'd still be uncomfortable. The room has dissolved into silence.

Bored, he gets up slowly, one hand pushing up from the sofa and the other on is lower back, before sidling over to the table and watching the game. Scout isn't stupid: he knows the fundamentals of a chess game, which pieces are which and how they move, but he could never quite grasp strategy. It's in his nature to be impulsive, but indecisive, too. Even in chess, Scout doesn't know what he wants, but he knows he wants it right away.

The pieces are dwarfed by Heavy's fingers. He looks up at Scout fleetingly, and then back at the board. With a dramatic sigh, another pair of eyes fix on Scout, who is just watching, that's all, leaning on his arm.

"Somethin' you want?" Engineer says, coolly. He blinks at Scout like he's really expecting an answer, but Scout can only manages a one-shouldered shrug.

"Jesus, I'm jus' watching. What, I ain't allowed to do that?" He returns, sourly. Maybe it's the evenings getting dark so quickly that's depressing him. It could be that, or maybe a feeling of complete uselessness at the prospect of being removed from fieldwork. Or maybe it's losing the most important relationship over something Scout still doesn't understand: but it's probably just the darkness.

Thesedays, they roll their eyes when he's in a mood like this. None of them have children, have wives, have women, but they all say it's typical, it's normal, an Scout struggles to imagine their basis for comparison. It's the worst assumption to make, that because he's young, he can't have real and existential problems or crises, because he's however-many-months it's perfectly fine to want to cry over something trivial, to want to slit the BLU Demo's throat and watch him bleed out with some kind of manical pleasure.

Maybe it's just easier to blame the darkness.

Scout leans back in his chair and studies the game. He can see immediate moves, but no plans on the board, in the same way he can his last days of work –real work- but nothing further than a week. His legs hurt. "Ain't you supposed to be nice t'me?"

"Quiet, son, I'm tryin' to think."

Scout resents being called 'son' more than anything else in the world, and he can be pretty resentful. He doesn't want to be reminded of some distant memory his brothers used to mention, the only man in the world who could deign to call any one of them 'son' turned cold so fast. Engineer's word comes a little late for Scout to feel anything but bitterness, and he sneers. As if waiting for something, he leans back in the chair. It's not like an apology is going to come from any party: but Scout knows that.

The game continues in silence.

It's peaceful until Heavy speaks up. He doesn't look at Scout when he talks to him, not out of guilt or aversion. Perhaps he just doesn't care enough to. The words wouldn't be for anybody else. Completely objectively, he nods to Scout. "You slept with Doktor last night?"

Well, that's one way to say it. Scout had needed to: he couldn't stand the prospect of waking alone in a terrified stupefaction. It's a weakness of his, but to be fair, it's one of the few. It wasn't sex, but it wasn't love either. It had, however, been nice; to be woken with a gentle nudge, and a kiss, and soft light from the other end of the room all milky in it's colour. He'd do it again. He'll do it so long as he's tolerated.

The others don't like him being near Medic at all. They see Scout as trouble. As some kind of destructive habit or even a distraction from the real world. It's as if Scout is this unfeeling, unkind, cruel boy that leeches the love and life of the man. Like Medic is this innocent bystander, this lovestruck girl, and he's not. They're nothing if not honest with eachother.

"Yeah,"Scout leans in his chair the way he sees Engineer do, two chair legs on the floor and one elbow hitched onto the back like a cowboy kid."I did." He says. Heavy seems to consider the answer, and remains still for a few minutes.

Then, after what seems like forever: "Are you stay with him?"

"What?" Scout draws back, and his chair shudders with the movements. He tips it forward to avoid falling. Of course he understands what Heavy means, but what he really means to ask is if the question is from a concerned party or an interested one. Just because Scout doesn't want Medic, that doesn't mean anybody else should have him. He thinks, with a sharp breath, that maybe that's what Sniper thinks."No, it's –nice."

The word shreds through him like a bullet through the back. But it's the only one he knows.

Engineer makes a derisive sound. But when Scout gives him a sharp look, the man says nothing for himself to hide or to attack. He continues to consider his strategy, like all men who have lived enough life to play chess. That's the thing: Scout has never lived life before RED, and with the things he's seen, he won't be able to after. It's like the only thing Scout knows is war, and it's not as if he likes it. But he can't remember what the peace feels like. Or if it ever was.

And as he searches for something else, aside from his misery, he watches a face pass the door, and linger. Sniper pauses on the threshold in the same way a man steps on a land mine, only realises what he has doomed himself before it is too late to step off. He stays where he is, in the door, and looks around the room plainly. Scout can't see his eyes, and wonders if that's a saving grace or a curse.

When scout opens his mouth to speak, he gets to, "Hey—" Before the man withdraws completely, gone as quickly as he came, leaving Scout with words that are drying up in his mouth.

Engineer might be laughing at him, but there's certainly disapproval on his face. How can he? It's not a trivial moment. It's the storm the calm never prepared him for. And it isn't like Scout would rather be with him, laughing with him, sleeping with him. He looks back in his head for early warning sings, for anything that could have predicted the man's reaction to honesty. But there isn't a thing.

"Don't laugh at me." Scout mutters to them. It does nothing, at all, and he tips the chess board in a moment of irrationality. "Don't fuckin' laugh!"

In a moment, Engineer's face goes cold. "Now, son—"

"An'don't fuckin' call me that!" He can hear himself saying these words –shouting them, even. But there's nothing he can do to stop them coming, or calm himself. His only comfort is that they're having none of it, and he is met with cool, steely, resolve. There's no way for Scout to be angry when he's met with reason, and the right answers. But he can be bitter that everybody else seems to get them first.

"You ain't gonna get anythin' from him right now." The man explains. There's no explanation needed. Even without all of the facts, the sense comes out of Engineer like rain over Washington. So Scout can only listen as the man re-assembles his game. "He's mad as a cut snake, or worse."

"I know!" He interjects, sourly.

"Well, if you know,"More calm, somehow. "Than what you hopin' to achieve by botherin' him?"

Scout wonders if Engineer dislikes him. Scout can live with that, just about. What he can't live with is pity, or knowing smiles. When he was younger, he used to tell them all he'd never get married, and like a real athlete, play the field until he was dead. The worst thing in the world was the response of those adults, shackled to their spouses, whose only joy was to give him that disgusting smile and shake their heads and say 'oh, you'll change your mind' like he was attacking them with his own autonomous decision.

Over his shoulder, Heavy's white army of pieces have been reset. He looks at Scout and says. "Da. Can't have it all." And he wonders if he's overthinking that when his first reaction is to recoil. But he doesn't have time before Engineer speaks again, with renewed vigour and his voice grows in strength with every word.

"I always thought you were the kind of boy who knew how to win people over, son. I might not a' liked your methods, much, but I always figured you to be a smart kind a' boy."

Scout is robbed of his words. He shrugs, and leans down to scratch the nape of his neck. In a tiny voice, he mumbles, "I don't know what kind of boy I am."

In Scout's mind, he's not even sure if he is a boy. They're always telling him to 'man-up', so maybe he looks like a man. Maybe that's the deception of adulthood, and of war, that he's cursed to be a boy forever, but to age, to play at responsibility. Even now, he's doing his best at performing.

It strikes him suddenly, and Scout lifts his head. What the hell is he doing here?

Later, at Soldier's door, he says, "Cut it." but he never makes it explicit which he wants sliced away: his vanity, or his hair.

-

You can say what you like about smarts. They don't count for much in Scout's line of work.

The day his sprint was cautioned to a jog, he learned how to aim for the head. Now the jog has slowed to a walk, he knows not to miss.

He isn't sure what will kill him first, this or the inevitable desk work that comes later. It's the same problem with both, all of that horsepower but no means to gallop. He finds himself leaning against a wall in RED base, aching all over, in no condition to be there but holding on anyway.

When Pyro passes him, marching as if on a mission, Scout straightens, and the disgruntlement falls off of his face. He smiles pleasantly and hears himself say something about giving BLU a 'screwin' they won't forget'. What he wants to tell somebody, anybody at all, is that his ankles feel as if they will break and his back is a switchboard of stinging nerves and he swears a pair of tiny feet are catching him between the lungs.

After Pyro has passed, the smile falls from his face so damn fast it's as if he's never smiled at all in his life. It certainly feels like that.

With a grunt, he manages to heave himself off of the way and load his gun. Stiffly, he begins to walk out of base, keeping very aware of who and what is in front of him. The flickering gunnery rumbles again, as it always seems to, and even in the brilliance of the day the combustion of enemy burns as hot and white as magnesium ribbon. Scout thinks this is going to kill him in more ways than one, but softens suddenly, feeling this complete serenity overwhelm him.

"Tomorrow is your last day." the voice behind him doesn't even make Scout flinch. You get used to it when there's the ever-present threat of it being a knife, and not just Medic, who is always so much softer when he speaks to Scout. Of course, the beam from his medigun is on Scout, and so are his eyes.

Unfeeling, Scout kicks at the dust. "Yeah, I know."

Moving Closer, Medic lets the beam die into nothingness and puts his hands on Scout's shoulder –cautiously, at first, letting the boy fight his instinct to struggle. Eventually, Scout settles, and he pushes deep into the muscle and rubs. "There's no shame in calling it a day earlier, Kliener."

Scout tries not to sigh aloud, because it feels so damn good, and yet, he clings to the tiny scrap of dignity he has left to call it a day. "Well, I ain't plannin' to." He pulls away, looking over his shoulder, trying to seem finite in his decision.

But nobody seems to take him serious. Medic gives him a disgustingly concerned look. "All I will say-"

Scout turns on him. "You tellin' me this as my Doctor, or my friend?"

There is a tense silence, jarring and heavy. More explosions corrupt the peace of november, the last of the leaves clinging on like Ma's hand, the phone lines whistling like her breathing. Medic might be looking at him, it doesn't matter. The fray is calling him, and it's so hard to resist that tug, to charge out like he used to, careless and ready for a fight.

Medic leaves it be. He says simply, "I wouldn't deign to tell you anything as your Doctor. It's not as if it would make any difference."

A snort. "Ain't that the truth."

With a flick, Medic trains the beam on him once more and leans. It's clear, at least to Scout, that if they were in a natural state, Medic would be kissing him, and that would the end of it. The man hasn't always been this way, lucid like a floodlight. For the longest time, Scout saw him as distant, or angry, or even crazed. There are still moments when he catches Medic with a bloody saw raised, spatter all over his face, licking blood from his lips with a maniacal delight and it's so dissonant that Scout doesn't recognise him.

But Medic is still his friend. Medic is still his Doctor. And only a fool argues with his Doctor.

Somewhere near the end of the battle, Scout slips away into the locker room and evaluates the day with a spinning head. He knows, almost right away, that he can't handle another three days. It's not just the fatigue, or how frustrated he gets by his own uselessness. Watching Spy crumple to the ground lifelessly from the single bullet to the neck almost made him burst into tears in front of all of them. Scout doesn't know who he is anymore.

His worst fears have unfolded: and this has changed him.

-

His last fight amongst them: out there is the chill of a Teufort fall, he relies heavy on the others but does the shooting. He's found in the intelligence room of BLU's base, on top of the BLU Scout's body pushing down on the boy's neck with his bat. It takes not much force at all until the boy chokes his last and dies. Scout will miss the rush he gets, that light, dizziness of –not murder, but sin.

BLU Medic does the finding. He pulls Scout by the feet and slices through both of his Achilles' on both feet, and the pain is unbearable. There's not a hope of crawling away, not as the BLU holds him with a heavy boot on Scout's collar and he can see what he sees in his own Medic sometimes: this complete bloodlust, this desire to somehow get even with a world in which he has no doubt seen the worst of. It comes only from a man lost, that any God would have to beg the forgiveness of.

"Please-" Scout says, not asking for mercy, but for death. Fighting against the man at all is useless, serving no end but to tire him, and leave him breathless, afraid, alone.

He doesn't have the nerve to scream, but to spit, and snarl, and thrash."Get off of me!" he shrieks. "Get-"

The BLU Medic laughs at him, says, "Hold still," and brings the hungry teeth of his blade closer to Scout as if to feed. His breath bleeds Kritz as if drugged and as under a pale blue see Scout sees him as he drowns. In all of his dreams the BLU Medic plunges before hie helpless eyes, his vorpal blood chewing away at sinew and bone and blood alike, feeding. It makes him feel sick, not scared, but violently ill when the blade cuts across the tightest skin, sawing back and forth like a march, and blood comes first followed by rosy, dull water and he prays for death.

"I am not done with you." The man says. He lifts a sticky glove and pats Scout's cheek, the red a slander against skin as white as Stalingrad. The hand moves up to his hair and leaves it crusty with rubies. "Quiet, spatz."

At the door, his Heavy appears, and urges him. "Is team time, Doktor."

The reply is hot in Scout's ear. He does not feel. He couldn't. "A moment!"

But the BLU Heavy continues to move forward, until his uniform shivers with indecision and his form is entirely hidden by the Medic looming over Scout like a bleached gargoyle. In a moment, the BLU is limp with fresh lifelessness, body cast over Scout. Behind him, Spy is painted an odd shade of battle, histories of defeat streaking his face, but mainly blood. His eyes are kind when he looks at Scout, and nods.

Scout doesn't close his eyes when he feels the shot. He looks at Spy until he dies. When the warm of Respawn claims him, he thinks of Medic's words, and of his sins. At the very least, he owes it to Danny's wife, if not himself. For a very long time, he sits. What at first was a frenzy of panicked kicks settles eventually into occasional movements, and he thinks that either way, even if it feels like an eternity, it won't be.

The others come after, later, and Scout takes his first opportunity to wrap his arms around Spy, slender and soft but here. He never accustomed himself to the autocrat's 'not in front of the others'.

-

The replacement comes the next morning. He's taller, and quieter, and when Scout sees him in uniform, lined up with rest of them, it takes him a very hard look to notice what's wrong with the picture.

Miss Pauling is quick to remind him that it isn't forever, and Scout will pass his physicals, and then his life at RED will be just as it was. Scout knows she isn't a fool but with a statement like that, she must be an idealist, at the very least.

It's not just that, though. It's on a deeper level, and harder to ignore. For some reason, that RED regulation shirt and uniform seems to be the worst insult, not because it makes Scout feel disposable, but because he can't even wear the uniform anymore. He can't even pretend to be part of the team. In it's very nature, his situation isolates him. He can no longer join the colours.

The first day is the hardest. For he wakes later than the rest of them, during breakfast, and fins them all in the midst of conversation. Of course, he goes to sit down just like everyday, goes to join them, in spirit, at least. But every chair is filled, and right at the back is the newcomer, drinking coffee like he has been there for years.

Aside, Spy tries to give him some meagre form of comfort. Lets the boy roll his cigarettes and lets him speak his mind. You can say that for Spy, at the very least. He's nothing if not pragmatic.

Scout places them in the cigarette tin and sighs. "I jus' ain't dead, yet, y'know. It ain't fair to make me watch." They are both in various stages of waking up: Scout at the point of crisis at being aware of the world around him and Spy still sun-drowsed, dozing slightly. The man gives him a simian smile.

"But he isn't one of us." The promises isn't empty, but dull. That's not Scout's game. "We don't even mock him."

"Yeah, you respect him!" It's weak, but it's true. Scout has been obnoxious since the first day to his very last, and it has always been returned in kind with ridicule. And in Scout' s mind, it's a mark of resentment. Jealously, he chews his lip. "I ain't sayin' I deserve it, but you ain't never respected me."

Instead, Spy laughs at him. "With so many siblings, it's a wonder you can be so oblivious." Nobody likes to be laughed at. And scout is tired of it. He hears it in every chuckle, in every jeer of the other team. Maybe he deserves it, because he had it all for so long, he was given so much and to have it taken away seems like a curse, if anything.

He grumbles. "I ain't oblivious."

Spy laughs some more. His laugh has different than Scout remembers it. He sounds older, bitterer and world-weary. Is that Scout's fault? Has he done that? Well, it was never Scout that broke his heart. They have working relationship.

"Do you think we would have mocked you, if we didn't think you could stand it?"

Scout shakes his head. "Bullshit. You were takin' cheap shots because you could."

Isn't it odd how means often overtake motivation? It's easy to fight with Scout, almost too easy. Just for the morning, Spy resists, just for then, and lights his cigarette one-handed in the way Scout always wanted to but never could. "You think I was spared any insult when I joined?" He smiles, faintly. "Of course not. They were merciless as they are to you."

Scout dips his head. He sighs. "An' you were fine with it?"

All he receives in return is a shrug. "Their opinions are valueless, really." He smiles. "You know, they never said a word to Sniper. They didn't know where he drew the line, because he always opted for his own company."

"A wasted opportunity." Scout mutters. It has Spy laughing, all golden in the way one might when hilarity is unexpected, and he waves a hand.

"Perhaps the only deserving victim, too." And he nods. "They do not offer him to come out with them, but they offer us. And they don't build strategies with him, but they do with us."

Scout raises another feeble protest. "Are they done laughin', yet, though? It ain't great consolation for feelin' like shit." It's true: Scout feels awful in every sense of the word. Everything aches him, random stabs of pain terrify him. Scout doesn't sleep anymore, he can't stand the sight of himself, and he's not getting anything out of it. Even the distant memory of Danny's wife, hysterical with glee does very little to make him feel like he's getting a raw deal. It seems like a crime to have the entire team's judgement, alongside the rest.

Spy stubs out his cigarette and rises, dusting down his thighs. "I supopose it is your decision to make."

"What?"

"If that man is worth it. I would say it isn't worth the effort, wouldn't you?" It has Scout's lips curling into some shade of a sile to think it. He has little energy to waste, and it really would be waste on a replacement. A nobody. Maybe Scout makes mistakes and breaks hearts, but he knows who he is, but at least he has a reputation worth mentioning.

It comforts him, through the first hour of listening to Miss P explain the filing system, and the first round of A4 snowflakes, through to a handful of papercuts. At least he's sitting down. They sit in the silence of humming generators for seven hours, until the end of his day.

At the end of it, he sees them file into the locker room, glistening with gold and sweat and ardent glory, and his insides tear themselves apart. As if the flesh would crawl off of his very bones to be near the fray once more.

Scout finds himself wanting to seek a respite from his respite. Later, in the dim mess hall he tries to read a simple magazine, one of the old, communal ones, and the article about disappearing bees seems to trigger something in him. It unlocks all of his hatred for himself, and for the others, and for his own decision. Not gradually, but all at once, and the large wet wad of emotion becomes lodged in his throat. What starts out as a choke, just to be able to breathe once more devolves into crying, and he hates that the most, the crying, yet he fears he's powerless to stop himself.

Scout sits there in the dim for twenty minutes, unable to stop himself. It wears him out, leaves him breathless and dehydrated, and nothing is of any comfort. Nothing. And he can't wander back into Medic's bed because if he sees another love-shy smile, he might tear the man's eyes out, and he doesn't even know why.

The grumble from the doorway is just loud enough to slip through his incoherency. "You're gonna wake them up." Then again, Sniper was never the most sympathetic to any case, least of all to Scout's. The man is attempting to be malicious, but can't bring it out of himself and instead wanders over, eyes still narrowed, arms still bent as if ready for a fight. "Scout, stop it."

"I c-c-can't." He hisses out, resentfully. "An' –an' it h-hurts just to b-b-breathe…"

In a moment of rare sympathy, Scout sees the man crack open like a sinking vessel, drifting to the depths of the ocean. In territory just as unexplored, the man places an awkward man on Scout's shoulder and says. "Get a hold a' yourself."

And Scout can't help it. He can't. As much as he fights it, his first instinct is to grab onto Sniper, to grab on hard and not let go. The man is soft and warm and human, his eyes are blue as mercy and he feels like a real person for the first time in so long. Even his smell is alive with sweat, and boyishness, and Scout keeps his grip, burying his face in the man's chest because it's the only thing that will make it better. And it is, because the only way to stop choking is the emotional Heimlich of a hug. Sheepishly, after an eternity, the man puts a hand high on Scout's back and pats, with a surprising tenderness.

Scout suspects Sniper isn't saying what he wants to. They both keep silent as his breathing settles from shaken and pathetic to something stronger, and steadier. After this, they won't talk. What is there to say? Scout isn't going to ask, and Sniper isn't going to explain and they're going to go on living crooked little lives and loving their crooked neighbours with all of their crooked hearts. The saddest part is Scout still holds this vain hope that they fit.

When their eternity ends, Scout is the first to pull away, and he looks the man in the face. "Don't go tellin' them about this." He says, bitterly. "I don't need their goddamned pity."

Sniper is emotionless. He just says. "We all liked it better when you had no heart, kid."

It's only then, after so long does Scout realise why he detests those words so much. With the faint memory, of pictures of the man that made his mother cry, he remembers 'son, and 'kid' and even 'slugger' and they fill him with contempt because he knows that they are the names men give to the branches of their lives that are destined to be abducted by the wind. That the men who use them will one day be too thirsty to pour water on their own seeds.

And Scout promises that will never be him. Never.


	17. XVII

 

 

When the week threatens to kill him, Scout's Friday saves his life.

At the end of the 'working' day, he's found sitting, slumped over the desk of papers looking unimaginably miserable. In his left hand, he seems to be weighing the letter opener, and it wouldn't be completely out-of-character for him to stab himself in the jugular to get out of working.

"If you bleed out," Miss Pauling begins, patiently. "Don't make a mess. It's not going to get you out of working."

It might be a joke, but Scout doesn't risk a laugh. He doesn't risk anything with her, because despite once trying to charm her, thinking there was this soft, funny side to her, he can't help but feel a little…disappointed. All Scout has seen so far is an uptight, work-obsessed, obedient woman with very little to say.

He wonders who deserves a trip to respawn more.

"You call this work?" Scout sighs, exasperatedly. "I thought it was punishment." This time he risks a joke but it gets nothing from Miss Pauling. That was to be expected. He leans back in the chair and drops the letter opener with a clatter. A glance at the clock doesn't lift his mood any. "You really don't need me here. I got stuff to do. Let's just-"

She laughs, briefly, and stands up. The movement is easy and graceful and enticing. Something as simple as standing up. Scout wonders if he was ever like that. If he could work the room in a single motion. Of course, now it takes effort to get out of a chair, to sleep, to control himself. It takes effort not to give up.

She walks to the door and turns around, raising a stiff brow. "Aren't you coming? You can stay if you'd really like." It brings out the desperation in Scout. He doesn't even know where he's going, or what they're going to do when they get there, but it's better than the here and now. With two hands and a little groan of pain, he manages to stand up, and begins walking to the door.

"If you're taking me to buy ink, or somethin' like that, I'll kill myself right here and now." He mutters, walking behind her in the corridor. When they reach the stairs, she walks up, and reaches into her small bag, pulling out a thick, black handgun, and checking it. The gun is certainly loaded.

"And if you're going to complain about everything, I could be a pal and kill you myself." She laughs, a sinister little giggle, and continues up into the blood orange afternoon. Scout follows after her, and into what he recognises as a RED company car. She climbs into the back, and stares bleakly at some corner of the interior. When Scout is sat, they begin to drive.

The windows are tinted, and the world beyond them is bathed in grey. Scout gives up looking after a while, and lifts his feet to inspect them, red and blistering and aching. He misses depending hard on them to take him from the fight, or into the fray headfirst. Now, he has to depend on others, and in his experience, they're not usually worth trusting.

The car turns a few times. He moves wordlessly with it, glad to be away from base, and away from all that he's missing. Eventually, they pull up to what looks like a shooting range from the outside. But there's not a single sign of life. No other cars, no stuttering rapid repetition of rifles at all. Something is horribly wrong.

Scout knows they're out of the respawn zone and wonders if she's come to shoot him between the eyes, like an old fucking dog, only to return to base. He could have no defence against it: none at all, and they'd already have a replacement. All it would take it a letter to Ma, and he'd be history.

But Miss Pauling makes no move to shoot him. She slips out of the car and comes around to open his door. "We're here," She says, with a strange, cheerful lilt in her voice. Warily, he climbs out of the car and follows her into the building.

It is a shooting range. Right away, she leads him into the stationary target practise room. There, already laid out, are a selection of weapons, sets of headphones, and two cans of coca-cola.

Scout turns to her. "I don't get it." He says, dumbly. She laughs at him.

"I was informed that it was important to keep you combat-ready. Otherwise, you'd stagnate." She walks up, and takes out her own pistol, laying it down gently besides it's brothers. "You were never the most accurate shot, anyway." The criticism is obvious. But Scout is too tired to pay it any mind. He walks up to his own selection of gun and tests one in his hand.

"Are you sure this is safe?" He asks, and right away regrets it. It isn't in Scout's nature to be caring, or kind, he swears it, this isn't like him. Whatever this has done to him, he hears himself saying the strangest things, and he'll curse Danny, and his wife and every last sad, convincing look Medic gave him before he admits he cares. "I mean, I don't really care, but Danny would."

His qualification is weak. Miss Pauling looks plainly at him. "Shoot straight." She says, simply. So he does.

It's the only joy he's had in a long time, and it feels good. At times, when he's holding the hunting rifle, he can feel Sniper's arms around him, his hot whisper, and the exact second Scout disappointed him. So when he squeezes the trigger, he makes sure not to miss, because he isn't sure how much more disappointment he can take.

Nobody else comes in or out. That's how he spend what he thinks is the whole evening of the Friday. The sun is setting when they go in, and with glee he only remembers hours later to look out of the window, where the darkness is thick and heavy. The guns fit his hands, and it feels good to have some purpose: regardless of how accurate or inaccurate his shots are. It's the first time he's seen Miss Pauling have what might be some kind of fun, too. Her face is fixed in a steady smile as she shoots a line from the target's forehead down to his crotch.

Carelessly, he loosens off a round into the target, and it pierces just below the neck.

"You're not as terrible as I assumed you'd be, Mister Weiss." She tells him. That must be her voice when she's cheerful. Beneath the explosion of gunfire, she has to be loud to be heard.

Scout nods. "You ain't so bad yourself."

The rifles are easier to aim, but are heavier. Scout isn't so fond of them, but has his go. Even through the headphones, the noise burns his ears and they ring like the aftershock of an earthquake. He's long since finished when Miss Pauling takes her parting shots. The headphones shrug around her neck like an industrial necklace and she wipes her hands down her dress. On seeing Scout leaning heavy on his own counter, looking out distantly, she exhibits the amount of concern as suggested by RED regulation.

"Are you well?" She asks, with the suggestion in her voice that she doesn't care at all. Straightening, Scout nods. He puts up a hand.

"I'm fine." He says. This is true: he's fine. At least, in the sense she's asking. "S'just loud." The room is still dizzy and ringing with the force of the shooting, and Scout isn't the only one who's noticed. He can feel his diaphragm being pushed up incessantly by a worried pair of feet and it limits the amount of air he can actually use.

"I believe we're finished here." She says, quietly, and takes one glance back at the selection of destroyed targets. They leave, Scout walking behind her, and file back into the dark car. The journey takes longer, maybe because Scout is more tired, or because the darkness robs his sense of time passing.

"I didn't figure you'd be much of a shot." Scout remarks, distantly.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing bad." He qualifies. "I jus' had you down as the type that didn't like getting their hands dirty. That's all." And then, he laughs, leaning back on his hands. "Hell, if I'd a' known you loved shootin' so much, I'd a' taken you there sometime."

"If I said yes." She remarks, coldly. Although, scout thinks, she might just warm up. For all of her bureaucratic ways, and her distance, Miss Pauling is just as human he is, and she cried as a child and sometimes, he's sure she wakes up scared to be herself. She must love something, or somebody. She must have said yes before, even just once.

"If you said yes." Scout looks at her, trying to decide what the expression reads as. "You sworn off men?"

Miss Pauling laughs a harsh, derisive laugh. "Men swore off girls like me first." And then she looks hard at him. "Men like you. With good manners and a thirst for Budweiser."

The saddest part is that Scout knows exactly what that means. And he knows what it is to tell everybody that they didn't hurt you. How could they hurt you if you wanted it? How could they hurt you if you never said no? Scout had thought, at first, that he had been wronged, that something was horribly wrong, but the world was as quick to explain to him as it was to Miss Pauling that it was his fault. If he got hit, he must have provoked somebody. If he got abused, he must have excited somebody.

"I don't drink no more." Scout says, quickly. And Miss Pauling nods.

"He doesn't drink anymore either." She laughs, almost giddy. "He doesn't do much of anything, if you catch my drift." That winds him for sure. He laughs, not out of shock, because it feels good to have some kind of army. Being alone against anything is futile: you get washed up in a sea of last causes. And yet, even if it's just Miss Pauling, Scout feels like he's got backing. He doesn't feel so fucking helpless, even if he really is.

She nods at him as they pull up to RED's base. "Your replacement." She says, quietly. "He's just as cocky as you. But I like him a little less."

Scout says, "Thankyou." But drags what he really wanted to say behind him as he staggers into base, and then into bed, his words dying on the cold steps.

You scared me, Miss P. You scared me.  
  
-  
  
  
What Miss Pauling said was true: his replacement is just as cocky. Taller, and stronger, and quieter. That's the worst part: the quiet. He gives nothing away as he smirks to himself, watching over the rest of the tea in the same way a farmer tends his chickens as Christmastime. Scout wouldn't mind him. At least, he wouldn't care about him if the stories weren't true.

Loose lips sink ships, and BLU Scout is leaky as a sieve.

When Scout finds himself alone in the kitchenette, trapped in the corner as he waits for the kettle to boil, his replacement finds him, saunters over and grins. He pins Scout to the counter with a stare, but worse, stays him there. Scout can't sprint his way out of this one, or do much of anything, but watch as the newest member of the team lets a large palm slap on the countertop besides Scout.

"You want somethin'?" Scout strives for a breezy tone, and tries to lean back. His back is stiff and it aches, and that silent smirk the man is wearing doesn't help him at all. He thinks he's seen it somewhere before. Scout takes his time in rolling down the sleeves of the jersey. He rolls down the other, for symmetry's sake, and tries to get past. But his replacement is bigger, and stronger, and less alive. "What do you want?" Scout exasperates.

"I want to know if it's true." Another slow grin dripping with a menacing geniality. His mouth opens a fraction-wider, like a shark, and Scout wonders if he has any say on becoming the man's next meal. "I heard from BLU that you got a, uh…reputation, so to speak."

Scout squirms. "Yeah?" He says, lowly. "They talk too much. Ya shouldn't believe everythin' you hear."

The replacement gives him a blank look, and then pins Scout to the counter with a large hand by his head. "So how about it, then?"

"Get outta my face." Scout mutters, staring at the floor.

"What?" A harsh, short little laugh. "After what I heard about you, this is a favour."

"Fuck you." Scout glares up at him, and makes sure to sound as nasty as possible. "I don't owe you shit. Now get out of my way, I'm tired." But when he goes to move, he gets shoved back. Is this supposed to be flattery? Scout has seen it, out there on the street, what they shout at girls in skirts, and how they're supposed to smile about it. This isn't a compliment. Scout doesn't know what to call it, but he's not going to pretend to like it.

"Easy," The guy jokes, keeping a colossal hand on Scout's shoulder that grips hard. "You outta just calm down, I was only tryin' do you a favour."

"Get off of me!" Scout snaps. "I don't want your charity, alright?"

He gets laughed at. Just like the girls with the legs, and he wonders how they can just keep walking, keep their heads down, keep their mouths shut, because he's really close to hitting the guy, and it's the first time this has happened. It's not as if, even if he was up for it, he'd been in the mood for it anyway. The day has been long and unpleasant and he misses the sound a guy makes when you steal the air from his lungs using a baseball bat.

"I was told you weren't much of a respectable gentleman, if you catch my drift." Scout glowers at that. "Told you had a great mouth on you. They ain't gonna respect you any less for it-"

Scout hits him. It's inevitable, and it feels incredible to sock him in the jaw, and feel the skin go warm beneath his knuckles, and how it stings a raw red afterwards. "Fuck ya." Scout hisses. "I'll suck a dick when I want to. Hell, I'll suck four dicks, and you're gonna respect me for it anyway." Of course, it's only after his sermon that Scout realises how much bigger and stronger his adversary is. Not just that, but how helpless he is himself: he can't outrun the guy anymore, or even outfight him. In fact, he's pretty helpless.

A hand clamps around Scout's upper-arm. "All I was trying to do-" Terrified, he loses it.

"Get off of –just get offa me!" He starts to fight the man, screaming out bloody murder, struggling against a grip that will certainly leave bruises. Ones that will fall off with time, and not with respawn, unless he's made the guy really mad. Scout is pulling away hard, trying to get out from under the guy's hand, but doing a poor job. What he lacks in strength he makes up in volume. "Get off of me! You're harassin' me!"

With enough screams, he starts to attract attention, and as soon as the guy sees Soldier at the door, his stiff march halted by the scene of Scout fighting against a hard grip. In an instant, the guy lets go, and Scout falls into the floor, shaking with the energy he had been using to try to get away. Chest heaving, blood shuddering and every convulsive twist of his gut screaming, Scout raises a trembling hand. Not out of fear, but energy. He feels so alive.

Soldier helps him to standing. Gives him the support he needs not to go toppling over again. "Son, what the hell-"

Breathlessly, he waves a hand, again, striving for inner-peace. "It's good." Scout says. "Fine. It's fine. We were jus' rough-housin' a little." And then, he qualifies it weakly with, "Don't tell Medic, yeah?"

It's terrible, but Scout doesn't need a fuss, or give any of them another reason to send him home to Ma with the only explanation being that he's 'too fragile'. So he nods to his assailant, with serious eyes. Soldier turns to the guy, and he nods.

"Yeah." He says. "Nothing but a little harmless fun."

When Soldier mentions it, later, much later, it's Spy that flicks ash onto the dust of the desert and says, "You didn't have to do that, you know." But, softer. "You wouldn't have done that a year ago."

"No." Scout agrees, distantly. He wonders what variable plays the biggest part in this, but as he runs a hand over his stomach, Scout figures he knows already.  
  
-

Stealth is best left to the professionals.

At least, to those of sound body and mind. All Scouts wants to do is sit in the back of a movie theatre, like a goddamned human being, and enjoy a terrible film and eat popcorn and feel normal. He just wants to feel like a normal human being and sit in the dark where nobody will stare at him and rest his feet on the seat in front of him. It's not much to ask for: he can pay for it, and he can get before they notice he's gone.

But slipping out, he gets caught. The breeze is cold and he's leaned against a wall doing up his last fitting jacket when a voice breaks his concentration.

"Where are you going?" Sniper is wiping down his hands on his jeans. He looks at Scout with a hard face.

Still, it's not as if he's going to be told on, so Scout tries to muster his confidence again. He pushes off of the wall and starts walking. "Out." Is the only answer he gives.

"The others know you're goin' out?"

Scout keeps walking. "Careful now," He says, "Wouldn't want you to start caring."

"Hilarious." But when scout keeps on, he gets a large, warm hand grasping his arm, so warm and human. It's something so small, but Scout had missed it intensely. And the sky is blue and Sniper's eyes are blue and the veins in his wrists are blue, and Scout thinks, what a human colour. "You ain't gonna walk into town? That's a three mile trip."

Scout blinks. "So?"

"So-..." Sniper looks very pained for a second. His face is still hard, and on expressions alone he looks like he couldn't care less. But his hand is still on Scout's arm. "So, I could give you a ride. If you liked."

Of course Scout wants to say yes. Of course he wants to climb from the passenger seat into Sniper's bed and curl up and sleep the rest of the winter away so that he can wake up beautiful, and young, without any strings tying him to the ground, like frail little nooses. But he can't seem to swallow his pride. "It ain't far."

Sniper persists. "I jus' figured, since your feet are all blistered." He follows after Scout like a terrier after it's master, all restless and useless. "That bag probably isn't helping you."

"I got it." Scout says, sharply. "Really, what's another ten pounds?"

That's when Sniper stops following him, and jams his fists into his pockets, face shutting down to everything. He looks hard at Scout with something like hostility in his gaze. "That's just like you. Shoot the one trying to help you." Bitter, Scout laughs at that. "Sure, laugh."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" He throws his hands up. "You can't expect me to take you serious." And Scout wants to be done there, but there's so much he wants to say, so much anger he still carries for the man, like cement blocks in his pockets that drag him down and drown him every time he sees a slash of sunlight in his iron sky.

"Y'know what would really help? If you were in my shoes, for just a couple of fuckin' hours." It wouldn't even take  _that_ long. "It would help if you could get people to stop starin', or if you could make me feel a little less like shit. That'd be real neat."

It's one of the few times Sniper really has nothing to say. An inch satisfied, Scout rocks on his heels, and he nods. "Now I'm going to watch a movie like a goddamned human being. That permitted?"

Of course, later, he lies awake in the middle of the night thinking of all the things he should have said, all of the 'you're an asshole's' and 'I love yous' that keep getting caught. His feet are red-raw and swollen from the journey, and his lower back is stiff from the cinema seats, but he can't complain. The technicolour had entertained him, and for the most part nobody really noticed him. For the first time in a long time, he was permitted to be just a boy. Not a monster, or a mystery, but a boy.

Sniper probably thinks he bitter, or wounded, and Scout wants to explain. When he needed help most, he was given not a word of guidance either way. He supposes, though, that it's nothing new. Bad news never had good timing.  
  
-  
 

Desk work isn't all so bad.

In fact, Scout finishes earlier most days. It seems fair, even just to him, because sleep is no longer enough, and after a day of sitting down he collapses onto the torn RED couch in the Rec room with an old copy of National Geographic. He doesn't even get to the middle spread before he's fallen asleep, the paper resting on his chest as he drifts. And Scout drifts so deeply that not even the charge of RED's team wakes him.

So that's how he's found. Scout doesn't actually wake until much later, when it's very dark, and he lifts his head, watching the blurry glimmer of the television set. Around him is the dull murmur of conversation, and when he looks down he sees a pair of legs. A gentle hand lays itself on his shoulder.

"What time is it?" Scout yawns.

"Eleven-eighteen." The voice that sings back to him is soft, too soft to be anybody but Medic. He's always so good to Scout: so kind, even when he gets nothing in return. You can love Scout for that, if you like. Still, he's in no hurry to go anywhere, and so stretches out onto his back, staring at his elevated feet. "You slept for a while, liebe. Didn't you rest last night?"

Scout waves a hand. "I couldn't sleep." He can only sleep when he doesn't mean to. It's not just the kicking that keeps him awake, or the terror of the nightmares or even just restlessness. It's not just the heavy silence of the desert or the dull ache where he thought Sniper would be. Should be. Scout isn't sure what or who to blame, but he's tired, and he's lonely. "How long do I got left?"

Shifting to let the boy lay more comfortably, Medic makes a noise of perplexion. "What do you care about that?"

Bitterly, Scout sits up a little. "I care plenty about it. When was the last time you saw me smokin'?" He rubs his eyes, and lets out a breath. "Jus' because I didn't ask for this kid, don't mean I don't care." It makes him think abut how the others see it, about how Medic and Sniper and even Spy are these innocent, wronged bystanders who were in between the wrong set of legs at the right time, and how Scout is this deviant, vile creature that wants to trap one of them like a butterfly in a book. "I ain't as heartless as you think I am." He murmurs.

"Don't listen to me," Medic laments. "I don't mean it in that way. It's been-..." A sigh. A sigh as silver as the man's hair is turning, one that is older than many stars. "This is a very confusing time for all of us."

There's nothing to do but laugh. Scout can't think of how it's confusing at all for the rest of them. In fact, it's pretty clear. At least they can understand themselves. How the hell is Scout supposed to continue if he wakes up scared to be himself for no reason? If times are confusing for them, Scout wonders what to call his own mess.

But instead of saying that, instead of being honest, he laughs. "Tell me about it," He yawns. "I can't even tell you how weird I look naked." When Medic doesn't laugh, Scout tries his best to ignore it. "I look pretty weird anyway."

Medic's voice is brittle as a flower-stem. "This won't last forever, Kliener. Twelve weeks more."

"Then I won't have a reason to look like shit and hate myself." The worst part is Scout's laugh. As if he's scared that he won't be taken if he's honest. As if they'll laugh at him: as if Medic, of all people, would have the nerve to laugh. Medic winds his arms around the boy and shakes his head.

"For whatever it might be worth, I think you are beautiful."

Scout stiffens. "Say that to me in twelve weeks."

"I will." It's rare Medic plays the game. One he's too good for, too old for. Well, he's too good for Scout, but he's there, and they're appreciating the silence of a world that never stops talking, and the flicker of monochrome on the television. Enjoying eachother's company. Maybe it's not love, and maybe it isn't what scout needs in his life, but it's what he needs here and now, so he takes it gratefully.

After a while in silence, Scout murmurs from the man's lap. "Medic?"

"Hmm?"

"Gimme your hand." Without a word, Medic complies. The fabric of the jersey is stretched, but warm and they experience the motion together. And Scout holds on so tight, so damn tight, that Medic wants to ask:  _did his other hold his hand too tightly when they crossed the street? Child –when your parents fought at night, did you mistake it for lovemaking? Was it the sound of a dead man's coffin being lowered into the ground that seduced you into this state: did it sound too much like your own pulse?  
_  
When Scout was small, they told him he could grow up to be _anything_.

 


	18. XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are all literally punk rock.

Social convention dictates sympathy, above anything, for Scout being found in the smallest hours of the morning, his only company the flicker of the television set.

But Medic isn't brave enough to use the word 'normal' again, for fear of what he might endure.

He's awake for much the same reason as he suspects Scout is: dreams, or the distant memory of dreams, at least. Ones that he has only ever dared speak of to those who might have dreamt it, too, those with the sad eyes who never talked of before, of home. The boy is so untouched by all of that tragedy: it seems he has ministered his own.

Coming around the broken couch, he sits on the arm and looks down at Scout. "Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

Against the delicate, gentle words, scout sounds twice as harsh and venomous than he probably intends. "You still not gonna do anythin'?" And then, at the man's dismayed silence, he nods to himself and rolls onto his side, hooking his tired feet over the arm. He doesn't look back at Medic. "I jus' wanna get back to sleep. T'...t'normal, y'know?"

Medic reaches out a hand and brushes over Scout's knee. His hands are large, and always dwarf the boy by comparison. It's a sobering reminder that he is young, and tender, still very much new to the world and scared of it. He just nods, solemnly, and yawns into his other hand.

"What got you up, anyway?" Scout asks him. Caught by the pale vanilla of the moon and the chlorine of the television, his eyes twinkle with fickle beauty and Medic wonders if the boy has ever looked at himself and seen what they see –all of them. He wonders if Scout knows how brilliantly he lights up a room. Judging by the slouch, and the nervous tapping of his hands, or the way he runs his mouth so he never has to run his heart, it's pretty obvious he has no idea, the effect he has on people.

"Dreams," Quietly, Medic replies to him.

"You dream, too, uh?" As if somehow aged, scout leans back a little and his expression doesn't fit on a boy still wet behind the ears. Like a child remembering the 'good old days'. It's so silly that Medic has to reply with levity.

"It may vex you to know that I have to sleep, as well."

Scout kicks him. "An' if you don't dream, you can!" He protests. "I can't ever get comfortable. My back fuckin' aches, an' if it ain't nightmares, it's this kid kickin' me in the ribs." Of course Medic isn't going to argue with that. He settles himself on the edge of the couch and takes scout's feet into his lap. He smiles wearily at the boy.

"I imagine it must be difficult, but it will be over soon enough-"

Scout catches his eye with a rare look of vulnerability that glistens the same way diamonds do in the darkness. "That's what I'm scared about, Doc." He whispers, and then throws a hand over his eyes. "I know it sounds fuckin' dumb, okay? But I jus' figured this kid's...it's safer now, y'know? I can look after it better, an' I don't gotta trust Danny, or-...or anybody else."

"It isn't dumb." Medic assures him. "And you aren't the first person to draw that conclusion."

"It is dumb." Scout shakes hie head. "It's fuckin' stupid, an' I know it. But it ain't gonna go back to normal. It can't. An' I feel like I'm getting' a raw deal."

"How so?"

For a moment, Scout halts in his speech and thinks hard. He swallows, and then chews on his lip. One of his hands rubs therapeutically over his stomach, as if it aids his cognition. Medic imagines that it's comforting. When he has nightmares, he often plays the only record Katherine ever gave him. For some reason, hearing the Ink Spots sing if like having her back, and he listens in the hopes that at least once, he will hear her voice soar over the top of theirs. Just once more.

"I don't know. I'm jus' tried." Scout says. "I don't wanna go back to sleep in case I dream again."

"Why?"It comes from him so naturally. Medic knows what it is to be haunted. He knows what it is to dream. "What do you dream?"

How intimate dreams are. And how awful. To be trapped, until waking up, in a present that cannot be explained or controlled. So Scout might be young: he might have seen less horrors than Medic has, but it makes his nightmares no less horrifying, or real. Those who suffer are the same.

Shyly, Scout scratches his head and swallows. He looks down when he speaks."I dream that-..." He lets out a harsh sigh. "I dream that I have the kid, but it's –it's all wrong. She's so quiet so I take a look at her, but...she's dead. An' her body is all cold an' grey, an' she don't move at all. I-I reach out to wake her up –to hold her, y'know? But she-" Scout swallows. He is trembling a great deal."But she don't wake up. She's dead. She's dead, an' I can't do anythin', an' it gets to me so bad, an'-...an' then I wake up."Scout whimpers.

It's no poetry, sure, but only the most broken of men write on their dreams and make poetry. Medic could not -could not –could never: his tongue wound into his jaw and his tongue caught in a barbed wire snare –ich, ich, ich. He can hardly speak: he finds his own language obscene, and thinks every American is Scout, sometimes. Even after all of this time.

"That isn't going to happen," He says, softly, giving Scout his full attention, and the broad, easy touch of his hand. "I can promise you that." When Scout fights him, and his resolve threatens to split like ice, there's no other option but to kiss him hard, and keep him warm. "And the procedure is safe and-"

"I know." Scout mumbles. "I'm jus' being irrational, I guess." In the light, he looks so incredibly tired. A stark, beautiful white against the deep, rosy purple of his eyes, and the mercy-blue of his eyes are brilliant, too. How human Scout is. He used to be something fierce, some kind of hurricane, and to see him as a mortal, as a boy, is one of the strangest and most disillusioning things Medic can think of.

They both turn to the television. It depicts a minor league basketball game, and while neither of them are much for sport, they watch anyway. The kids onscreen are skinny and quick: they could all be related to Scout. One fakes a pass, swivels, runs a neat circle around one defender, fakes another,goes to jump and takes a shot. A perfect shot.

"Jeb could do that." Scout says. It's clear from his tone that he is done talking intimately. That's okay. For all of it, Medic has been through with his own ghosts for long enough.

"Hmm?" Medic looks at the boy, who yawns. His toes wiggle a little.

"My oldest brother, Jeb. He could do that." Pointing to the replay, Scout nods. "He used to play for the highschool team. Star player an' everything. I was mad jealous, y'know. I did track, 'cause I weren't a 'team player' or whatever." His voice softens with the glow of nostalgia. "He used to call that shot 'the dynamic Jeb cherry shot mark III', or whatever."

"Mark III?"

"I know, right?" Scout laughs, all mirthless with bitterness. Medic thinks for a moment about Ada, and how if they did not have eachother, they would have had nothing. What use would six other siblings have been? He wonders if Scout competed for his mother's love. He wonders if Scout lost. "It was bullshit. All of it. I used to believe it, when I was real young. It's a stupid name, too, 'cause there ain't no mark I or II."

The boy sighs and shakes his head. He watches the television with a measured gaze when he speaks."Jeb said 'Mark III' was jus' to hook the crowd. That they'd come every week expectin' to see Mark I or II. Never did, o'course."Another barked little laugh. Scout shakes his head, and suddenly looks very sombre indeed. "Boy, they really did used to come, too."

"You must have been proud." Medic says, softly.

"Oh, sure." Contemptuously, the kid spits. "Sure, I was real proud of that wiseass sonvuabitch. I mean, it ain't like he left us or nothin'." In the wake of the words, they both fall into silence, and Scout closes his eyes, shaking his head. "Y'know, he had the nerve to send me a letter, the other day. I was so mad I tore it up."

"You tore it up?"

"I put the pieces back together, when I couldn't sleep. He's getting' married, y'know. At last." Scout's voice is a purgatory of emotion, a little of half-whispered heaven, but a splinter of hell, too. He wrings his hands a little, and smiles to himself as if in on a private joke. "He used to tell me we were gonna mine diamonds in Brazil together, an' get real rich. He was nuts like that."

Medic doesn't have the heart to interrupt. For this moment, he has Scout, and he was the night, and he has Scout's demons banished from his consciousness, even just for now. He has all he could want. "Will you write back?" He says, after a while.

Scout goes to speak right away, but clams up after a moment of thinking. "What would he care if I did, anyhow? Ma writes him every week wit' no response. Y'know, in his letter, he congratulated me for 'scorin' with some chick, even if I did knock her up'. Can you believe that shit?" He laughs, again, but this time softer, as if believing his own lie. "I got half a mind to write an' tell him there ain't no girl. Only Jeb'd be a sucker enough to believe me."

What do you say to that? Medic keeps his mouth shut because he can't tell if it's sarcasm, if it's American or something else: something he hasn't thought of, a less recognisable, less distinct mockery. If anyone were to use it, it would be Scout. But the kid keeps his face straight and lets out a frustrated sigh.

"I'm jus' tired. Y'can ignore me." And then, he lets out a whimper. "I want to get to sleep, but I'm scared I'll see it again." The poor bastard is so frail and tired. That helplessness is scary. Scout knows it, too, and he'll fight hard never to be found like this again. He lets out one last, pathetic little sigh. "You can go, y'know."

Against his wishes, Medic doesn't. And that's how he's woken, by a large and jealous touch. His shoulder is shaken lightly until he rouses, at last, curled into Scout just as much as Scout is coiled into him. It's not dignified in the last, but that's half of the appeal. Drowsed, sun-dozed, Scout's small hands grasp and curl at his nightshirt, and only let go when they are pried off.

With the look Heavy is giving him, Medic goes hot and dense with shame. As the man opens his mouth to speak, Medic halts him with a hand. "I know," He says, softly, gently, as if not ashamed but defeated by the world: a world of his own making. "We all know it's going to hurt."

The trickiest part of that is, Medic never says what.

-

In the end, it's important to cut everything superfluous out of life in order to succeed. And that's what Scout does.

He starts at the star, of course, with smaller people, the indirect ones. He keeps Danny's letter, in all of it's pieces, but never mails him back. Purposefully doesn't reply to Ma's letters, or any of his brothers. He gets a few each week, from Ma, and from Tony, and from Frank, and a seasonal card or two from the old car lot.

He burns them all for one: the slim package he doesn't recognize.

The return address is t Danny's, but nothing on the inside is signed. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, and assumes it must be his wife's, for the small, quite plain card with snow all over the front (despite it being arid and despite Christmas being another six weeks away) has a small message inside, like an epitaph.

'More to follow. Our thanks is limitless.'

Behind it, he's horrified to find, is a wrapped single. A 78rpm that Scout considered his graduation song. When they used to play it on the radio, he found it difficult, even, to be through with everything. It was like extended any period of joy for just two minutes more. How long has it been since he's heard it?

The only record player in RED base is a communal one in the Rec room that the team paid for together last Christmas. It isn't used very often, mostly because they can't decide what to play as a group. But when an argument had the thing sent to Engineer's workshop for repairs, all Scout has really heard being played is country music.

Danny has brought him home on a few inches of vinyl. He tells himself, it isn't superfluous, it's necessary.

When he wanders down to Miss P's office at the start of the day, he leaves it on his deck to look at. It keeps him in relatively good spirits, even just the action of having it. They're both silent until she spots it.

"What song is it?" She asks him, curtly, peering over her work.

"What?"

"Your record," She stands up, and wanders over slowly, picking it up. "Is it new?"

Scout shrugs at her. He always seems to be shrugging at her. It's confusing to be around Miss Pauling at the best of times: she doesn't fit into any of his ideas of experiences of women. She isn't a mother, doesn't act like a slut, wouldn't suit the archetype of a virgin. So he is forced to take her seriously.

"Record's new, but the song isn't." He explains. She reads it with a smile.

"You much of a Chuck Berry fan?"

"Not really," Scout says. He always followed sport, and not music. And even when he did follow music, it was usually hand-me-down songs that were tainted with the personalities of each of his brothers. Just like Jeb had loved the Beatles, Scout gets mad as hell when he listens to them. "Was a present from somebody."

"It's a wonderful choice." She comments, and then wanders away with the record. Scout flinches, but he trusts her, and eases back into his seat. "Would you like to hear it?"

"I didn't strike you much as a music fan, Miss P." He says, honestly, but nods. It would bring back home, and he misses that time of his life. He didn't realize it at the time, nobody ever does, that trivial little songs on the radio would make him homesick –sick of everything, too.

She puts the record on with a click, and the crackle of a good LP, and smiles to him, genuinely. "I did have a life before RED, you know."

When the guitar comes in, he's a senior again, kissing the girls and skipping class and wining medals in the heat of July. It's so stunning and clear and thick in the stifling silence that he feels himself joyed –even, relieved to be hearing it. The memories wash over him in the water of sound and he's drenched in the sensation of meeting an old friend. The piano is as acerbic and brilliant.

The last thing he thinks he'll see is Miss Pauling walking around his desk and holding out her arms. "Don't be dull, Mister Weiss." She asks of him.

"Naw, c'mon." Scout makes a face. He turns in his chair and slumps onto the desk. "C'mon, I ain't doin' that."

Miss Pauling isn't the kind of woman often refused. Not just because she is fierce and intelligent and forthright, but also because she is incredibly beautiful. If it weren't for all of this mess, Scout would still be pursuing her, he'd still be asking. And she'd still be saying no.

With a firm hand, she grasps his wrist and gives him a small smile. "You were always offering to take me before."

"Things have changed," He qualifies, weakly.

"Indeed they have." She laughs."I'm saying yes to you this once. I might even be convinced to stretch to a please."

With a great sigh, he manages to stand himself up. He takes her by the hands, because he isn't brave enough to take her hips. Miss Pauling moves first, all limber, like water, and something close to enjoyment lights up her face. The neat bun her hair is pulled back into swishes with her movement. They turn with the verse and it's actually nice. The sound of Chuck Berry's voice glows brilliantly.

She dips and he tries his best to catch her. Her movements are all coy and rehearsed and despite the fact that Scout doesn't even know if they're friends, she seems to trust him to follow her, to catch her again and again. It reminds him of the person he was once, trusting Sniper and Medic to spin pirouettes around him, to break their backs to bend and twist for him. Now, he follows, he's careful. Less the pitcher, and more the catcher.

The song is short. It's two-and-a-half minutes of pure, unadulterated joy, and it's ephemeral, sure, but he can play the record again. And he can dance again. It seems that between listens the world changes so much, and Scout with it, that it's nice to have one constant variable, besides this kid, and all of the fear that drowns him when he thinks about it.

On the last verse, she spins a last time, a few strands of dark hair having broken free, and she dips so suddenly he thinks he is too late. He does catch her, and she looks at him with something close to loyalty.

The rest of the work is done in a measured silence, and Scout is left with this really strange sentiment. Being caught by Spy, or whoever in the same way Scout caught Miss Pauling means one of two things: that the both of them were either ready to trust, or ready to fall.

-

Scout does do some pitching, still. He pitches to Spy in the man's opulent little room while rolling cigarettes. It keeps him busy. Busy enough not to start counting days, at least.

He licks the papers and misses the taste. It sticks on his tongue in the same way blood sticks on your clothes, and he's spent so many nights washing away his addictions with his laundry, it seems silly to be this affected. Spy watches him languidly, having no qualms about blowing little lilac rings into Scout's atmosphere.

"What happens afterwards?" Scout asks him, so suddenly. He is unable to put off the question any longer, and Spy laughs at him.

"Afterwards?" He raises a shoulder. "I thought you wanted me to rub your feet, puce-"

"No, I mean-..." Pained, Scout lets out an awkward hiss and rolls onto his front. He slips his finished work into the cigarette tin and admires the collection, shoulder-to-shoulder like toy soldiers. They both have the same life expectancy, after all. Of course Spy knows what he means, and leans forward, letting his hands settle on the boy's shoulderblades.

"You mean to say, what happens after you have the child?" It sounds so strange, and inapplicable. Like some dull rumour of another war, another child, another Scout entirely. Even now, Scout doesn't really believe it. He thinks on his sins, thinks perhaps he has earned this much. And yet, it is not much of a punishment. If he'd never gotten pregnant, he doubts he would have ever seen that weasely, yellow side to Sniper, the one so well-hidden. They might have spent years together. Isn't that awful?

Spy takes another deep, crackling breath in and settles for moving his hands slowly, in deep circles that have Scout breathing softer, softer, softer. "This has not changed us, cheri. You are every bit as lovely and dear to me, regardless of what befalls you." And that's nice, Jesus Christ, Scout would love to believe it. Maybe it's just a matter of semantics, but it bothers him.

"Us," He says, growing in certainty. "What befalls us, man. This kid could be yours. Don't you feel –shit, don't you feel even mildly responsible?"

Spy looks so totally fucking unperturbed that Scout has half a mind to cry, and half a mind to hit him. But Scout is slow, and tired, and at least if he cried, Spy might have some sympathy to offer. If anybody deserves it, it sure as hell is Scout, too. It takes the guy an eternity to speak.

"Donating genetics hardly counts as parenthood, Scout. You of all people should know that." The words are choice and cutting, but worst of all –true. The kind of a person that leaves eight children to a helpless mother is no father, but merely a donor. Left his brand in Scout's eyes, in his face, and I guess that's why Scout could never really stomach the word 'father'...because he knows it as the name for all of the branches in his life destined to be abducted by the wind.

"Well, this is a roll call for any of you to step the fuck up." He mutters.

"Step up for what?" Spy blows a cloud, letting a few dregs drain out and twirl like a ghostly moustache. "Are you supposing we play families, Scout? Is that what you would like?"

"Don't mock me, alright?" He sits up. "I'm goin' outta my fuckin' mind, an' I don't even know who I am anymore, an' all you can do is sit there an' laugh." That's no good. No, it won't do at all to shout at him. Spy will laugh harder. He'll play coy like he always did. After all, it's from him that Scout learned how little to invest. That unless you could maximise profit and minimise loss in a relationship, it probably wasn't worth it.

He tries for a different tact. "This a joke to you?" When Spy doesn't respond, assuming the question was phrased in rhetoric, Scout leans towards him. "Gimme your hand." Spy doesn't give: Scout snatches. He takes it roughly and pulls it into him. Maybe it's Spy's hand the kid kicks against, or all of the arguing. It doesn't matter, because it gives Scout pause enough to speak. "You feel like mockin' me some more?"

In all his days, Scout has seen Spy covered in swamp water and piss and ash and blood alike, he has seen the man scrambling in the dirt for bullets and knee-deep in snow, snapping his lighter uselessly for one more cigarette. And of all of those times, Spy never looked as horrified as he does now.

It brings out this nasty side of Scout. Good, he thinks. The man wants horrified? He's got more than enough of it to share.

He keeps Spy's hand there for a while, on the fabric of his jersey. Spy is warm and welcoming and it makes him savage with want like a dying man to the fountain of life, desperate to wet his lips even for a moment. How he craves touch: to be touched, and how he dreams of the times he was wanted. He doesn't want anything else, no relationships or friends, or even money.

He knows exactly what he wants, and who he wants to be. It's just-...not this.

The second he relieves pressure on Spy's palm, the man pulls away, and swallows like he's trying to suppress waves of sickness, or disgust, or something else and it wounds him. It really does. Because even if he hates himself for it, and even if he wouldn't admit it, this kid has been all he's had for months now, and he'll be damned if he doesn't feel something like love for it. Picturing the prettiest girl, with his eyes and Sniper's unhealthy interest in the outdoors is something that scares him, but disarms him, too.

After a while in the silence, with Scout laying on his side and glaring hard at the wall, Spy loops an arm around the boy and holds him, just for a little while, and the touch is exactly what he needs: no from the grace of Medic, where love and duty serve within him, but from something more illicit, and more genuine, too.

"Perhaps I have seen too much of the world." Spy tells him. "And yet, there is more to see." He laughs. "Frustrating, isn't it? How much of it will you see if you're stuck playing families at the start of your life?" What he's saying is jaded, and feels faded seeing as it falls from a jaded, glamorous man. Scout swallows.

"She reacts to music, y'know."

"Excuse me?"

He smiles to himself. "I was playing a record earlier. An' the whole time, she was goin' nuts. But when it was finished, she didn't move none at all." It seems trivial, but to Scout, it is the explanation, the frame around the picture, the missing context to which his life needed. Only something intelligent and alive and human could hear music and know, right away.

Spy rubs his feet anyway. Laughs with him. Makes jokes to him. And what does it matter? Just like Medic said, it will be over soon.

-

So maybe Scout likes ignoring advice. And maybe he wants to go to the movies again. The way he sees it, it's his money, and he has the right to waste it if he wants to.

Maybe it's his conversation with Spy that's done it, but when Sniper offers him another ride, all amiable, he is somehow convinced. He's caught by the sweetness of the gesture until he climbs into the passenger seat and asks himself what the hell he's doing. Remembering the last time he was here is not something he wants to do, in reality. It's too late when Sniper climbs into the driver's seat and sticks the van into gear.

"You okay, kid?" he bites his lip aty that, and nods. "It's a long walk, y'know."

"I know."

"A good thing you don't have to walk it, then."

Scout leans heavy against the window and rolls his eyes. "Christ, you want a peace prize or somethin'? I already said thanks." He sighs dramatically and watches the road pass him by, the grainy, arid ground becoming a circuitous blur of orange asphalt. Snipe keeps his shielded eyes on the road but does the talking.

With a smirk, he says. "You ain't changed, after all of this."

It's contemptuous, at best, but Scout bites all the same. "Oh, give it a rest, wouldja? You fucked me. That don't mean you know me."

The road is smooth and temperate. But the conversation is rockier and more heated than the sierra nevada. "I know you, alright. And I know it ain't like you to let that new kid go just 'cause."

Scout shifts in his seat. He hates himself for getting softer. For changing. "What do you know about it?" He mutters. "He was jus' messin'-"

"Messin' when you didn't want to be messed with. I know you, Scout. I know that you were fighting back, an' that he didn't shout."

"You don't know anythin'." Scout mutters. He looks at the man and sees hardly anything recognisable. What once were quirks and cute traits are now a blur of the past tense.

"I know that if he shouted, you'd have cried. You always cry. Always." It would be easy to misinterpret the fact for some kind of slander, but it's true. Scout really believes in it, too. Because at least if he cries it out, he can't choke on it.

"It ain't right how true that it lately." He laughs, mainly to himself, and it has Sniper raising his eyebrows.

"Never knew you to be so honest."

You can say what you like about honesty: Scout won't care. "Better to be hated, than loved for what you're not." And then, as they pull up into the two of Teufort, he pauses, and thinks hard. "What did you want me for, man?"

It takes Sniper an eternity to answer. But eventually he swallows his pride. "Time."

And it's misleading, because Sniper has had time. He's had two damn years of it, and it has never been enough.


	19. IXX

_(gotta say, considering this project started out as a little distraction, i'm pretty overwhelmed by the amount of support it's been met with. seriously, it is an absolute pleasure to be rewarded so much, and to have the pleasure of reading responsive, engaging reviews that are almost always motivational and helpful. an enormous shout to pyroness for the greatest graphic for any piece of writing i have seen in a damn long time. it can be viewed here (http://pyroness.tumblr.com/post/54907769788/he-has-them-all-pegged-these-sad-men-with-their), and the blog is pretty brill. thankyou-all so much)_   


The record from Danny is the instigation of Scout's homesickness.

It's not as if he doesn't miss it in small ways regardless, but when his next'gift' arrives, alongside a well-intentioned letter from Ma, it hits Scout like a bat to the stomach. It's not a record this time, but another slice of home. One that cuts him deeper, and six-ways like a slice of mirror. It's his battered little copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'.

The record was just the start of it. But it doesn't help that December is rolling on fast, ready with the snow. Gloomily, he hears the weather report for Boston and imagines the back yard coated in snow and twinkling the way sugar does, or Ma's fruit cake when it was iced and finished. Remembers the schoolyard, and the way snow turned rosy if you got hit in the nose. How the track on the field got lost, which meant following ghosts for the 100m. Hot dinners, warm beds, easy life.

His last winter in high school had been even bitterer. Scout had waited outside in the cold for two hours, because he didn't want to face his Ma. See, he'd been up to New York for a fencing thing, something he had tried out for a short while, but had left the foils on the subway. They were expensive, and at the time they didn't have two coins to rub together. When he thought he would die of hypothermia, Tony let him in the back gate and he slipped into bed without getting caught. At least, not until the next day.

The disease catches, too, and soon enough everybody is thinking of home. Teufort, the badlands, might house them, and this might be home for RED, but not for them as individuals.

Scout can hear it on every whisper, every sigh, every letter home: men like them are the loneliest in the world.

They'll be flying home, soon. That's what hurts the most, is that they can escape from this disaster, slip away on a plane or in the back of cars. And somewhere, somebody in Scotland, Australia, Texas, Russia or even Germany will have their arms open. Scout can't even take a train home.

There's still time. Weeks, in fact. Scout knows he'll probably be alone, and while the thought of having the entire base to himself is exciting, it's sort of sad, too. Well, not all to himself. Sometimes, Pyro stays. Where would Pyro go, anyway? There's little consolation to be had from that, though. Pyro isn't exactly a sparkling conversationalist.

After dinner, one a Thursday, Scout makes himself at home in Spy's bed and watches the man iron through at least fifteen shirts.

"You goin'?" It's difficult to get out, and even more difficult not to sound childish or pathetic. Scout keeps his expression level, so as not to give the game away. He has to ask because he doesn't know. Before, he's only ever gone home for Christmas.

Spy looks at him calmly. "Going where?"

Isn't he a rotter? Scout sits himself up with both hands and tries to appear stern. "The moon, asshole. Where'd you think?" When he still doesn't get an answer, the boy groans something awful. "S'christmas in a few weeks. Are you goin' home?"

There's no 'going' to be done. As the details of his file explain, in the back of a cabinet somewhere, while he was born and raised for a few years in France, it became very unsafe very fast for his family. They had been an affluent sort, but not complacent. His earliest memories include hiding in the shadows of his cellar, or many, half-known houses, hearing the bark of  _Germans_ like hounds. His mother used to cover his mouth to quiet his breathing. His father used to do the negotiating.

It's not as if Spy really remembers either. There's a photograph, somewhere, he's sure, but it doesn't matter. The next part of his life was England. A new language, a stickier tongue to speak with.

But what he says to Scout is, "No. I think I should be staying, this year."

Immunity to homesickness is a rare thing. Scout doesn't really get it. He looks at Spy hard, and then shakes his head. "Don't you got family who want to see you, or nothin'?" Maybe it's abrasive. He's never been the most sympathetic of boys. At least, not before.

"Were you 'oping to 'ave the place to yourself?"

Scout laughs. "Naw, man. I'm –I'm glad you're stayin'." He lowers himself back again and adjusts the duvet around his shoulders. Somehow, he stays afloat in the dark ocean of sheets, half-drowning, and maybe it's criminal or out-of-character to think it, but Spy thinks he suits it.

The thought escapes him. He continues on the sleeve of another shirt.

"I'd give anythin' to go home." Scout says, after a while. "Anythin'." The pain in his voice is so evident that it wounds all around him like light to the eyes. It's rare scout is honest, or at least, open with his vulnerabilities."It wouldn't have to be for long, an' I wouldn't want any presents. Jus' to see home. Jus' to see Ma. I'd be –shit, man, I'd be happy."

Scout thinks it funny, in a sad way, how demanding he used to be. How half of Christmas was a chore. It would always come, with every December, and he had never before really considered it's meaning. Before, it had much less, because it was there, in his hand. Now, states away from home, and the snow, he thinks maybe the boy he wasn't before wasn't as grand as Medic would have him believe.

"If it means so much to you, go." Spy shrugs at him. Shrugs, like it doesn't matter. It makes Scout irritable.

"Yeah, sure." He laughs, mirthlessly. "I'll jus' turn up like this at Ma's house an' see if she don't have a few questions I can't answer." There it is. There's that same boy, who has had enough of the world, had enough of all that he's seen, even if he's only seen an inch of anything. Frustrated, he rubs his stomach and sighs. "I mean, you even think she knows I'm-…that I like what I like?"

The way he says it is thick with disgust, but that isn't scout's fault. He's a product of a system he can't beat, or challenge. Nobody has the means to rise above it, so Scout is allowed to be bitter. After all, he's been taught his way of life, and his own affections are somehow wrong.

But Spy knows it isn't worth dwelling on. The world will change in the meantime, and as for now, he has a boy to cheer up.

"It will just be us 'ere for Christmas, then, yes?" He smiles serenely at the boy, and it does something to cheer him, even just a little. Scout's shoulders fall, and he looks at Spy so openly, it's a little intimidating. He places the iron on the end of the board and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly, feeling where Scout's skin has been from the soft radiation of heat. "Is there anything you would like?"

The boy leans heavy on him but talks anyway. He yawns and shrugs. "Not especially." He says, and then shakes his head. "Like, I appreciate that you wanna make it good and everythin', but I jus' wanna go home. It ain't personal."

Some hours later, in bed, he thinks about those foils on the subway. Thinks about track in the wintertime, shaking snow off of Frankie's old black coat he's been given and sitting in the bleachers, ready to watch Jeb's signature shot. And the one time Ma's engine wouldn't start, so they walked the four miles in the tundra, and once inside Ma used up the last of the milk to make them all hot chocolate. The cup had been numbing to his fingers, and he remembered sitting at the table and watching the snow fall. In all weathers, he never wanted to be elsewhere.

It's funny how the world turns.  
  
-

When it turns eleven the next day, and Miss Pauling hasn't seen a hair of Scout's, she checks her surveillance, to make sure he isn't still sleeping in, or worse, sneaking out onto the field, for a fight or a smoke.

The other members of RED have much the same problem. His bed is empty, but nod made. His drawers look as if they have been rifled through. Things are knocked over. It looks as if somebody has stolen from him, or taken him, and at first, all suspicions lie with BLU. But, of course, there isn't anything to be gained from a false accusation.

They have to remind themselves that Scout is a capable adult. He might be the youngest of the team, but he is no fool. It's only a single dark cloud in the back of Medic's mind that supposes questions might be asked if strangers see him, but an entire hurricane if the boy goes back to his family and gives them a poor explanation of something rare and delicate and wrong.

A tape from the earliest hours of the morning proves most useful in the search. It's only short, really, but has everything they'll need to know playing. The empty corridor accommodates a single boy, with a bag slung over his shoulder. He does a single glance around before slipping out into the darkness. No doubt headed for the station in town.

No doubt headed for Boston.

She tells them, calmer, later, and pretends as if it's of no concern, despite the obvious disaster that sharpens her when she speaks until she is angular with catastrophe. The less involved men, the calmer ones, nod and make rational decisions, they talk about giving him time, and space, and all of that. But you can tell who cares by who is most distressed.

And Medic is in hysterics. "There must be something you can do." He hisses, frantically. "Something. Cancel his card. Bring him back. Anything could happen to him out there!"

She swallows. "My jurisdiction ends here."

He isn't having any of that. "Damn your jurisdiction!" Heavy keeps a hand on the man's shoulder, keeps him rooted to the spot, but nobody does anything to silence the man. "You bring him back here. You bring him back  _safe_. That's where your  _verdammten_  jurisdiction ends!"

Rarer than that, Spy raises a hand feebly. It trembles slightly. For once, he nods to Medic, makes an ally of him rather than an enemy. "I must agree." He says, in a half sort of whisper. "The rick is too great. Surely it would be a liability for RED?"

Paralysed, Miss Pauling feels herself shrug. Her face is hot with shame, despite careful effort to seem nonchalant. It doesn't do to lose anybody. And not once who has suffered as either of them have. "What would you have me do?" She asks them. "I don't know where he is, or what he's doing. The only thing I could do is cancel his card-"

"Get going, then."

"He withdraws what he's paid every month. It's cash." The realisation that there is nothing in essence she or any one of them can do dawns to different degrees on different members of the team. Some remain staring hard at her, very hard. Spy bites his tongue: instead of hers. And she is acutely aware of how easily she could be grabbed by any one of them. Grabbed and throttled and left for dead, believe me, she could calculate the risk in a moment.

Taking a small step away, she holds up her palms. "Look," She says, "Look, I know that you must be anxious to find him, but until you have some kind of clue to his whereabouts, I don't know what you expect me to do."

It's an obvious lie. She knows exactly what they want her to do. The trouble lies with the means to do it.

It could be a million miles to Fenway. It isn't –but it could be. There's the problem.

By train it takes about two days. That's with exchanges and all. It would be faster to go by plane, but if Scout were really worried about speed, he wouldn't be very still in his own train carriage, watching miles of developing scenery pass. It's only been fourteen hours or so. He isn't even halfway, but the mere thought of getting home, of being in transit, en route, on course…it justifies the journey.

Scout has done a wonderful job of not thinking about RED so far. He knows how sore Medic would be over a little transgression like this. Despite the fact that he is capable, and knows six different ways to disarm a guy, let alone kill one, it's always assumed he can't handle himself. Like Scout has never been home, before, in the city. Like he's never gotten himself out of a jam, kid or no kid. And, sure, he's human and sometimes he does things like leaves the foils on the subway or forgets his keys. But, Christ, the way they talk about it, you'd think somebody was keeping score.

The further north the train goes, the more pale flakes of snow he sees salting the earth. Up in Chicago, it's supposed to be a whiteout. He hopes it won't delay the train. This is, after all, a matter of urgency.

At least the carriage is warm. On the train home, he usually reads about four magazines, and sleeps the journey away. There's less space than he remembers, and it's much more uncomfortable, but he can manage to lay, thereabouts. In the end, he's curled up on in himself in all kinds of ways, but at least he's going home.

He reads a little. In the small bag, bills are stuffed in tightly. There must be so much money in there, but none of it even matters. If you've got twenty, in Scout's mind, you've got them all. It isn't dollar bills that made Boston so special, and no amount would make anywhere else the same, not for all of the millions.

Now, Scout isn't dumb. He has put some thought into this, but not a lot, because a lot would scare him. If something happens: on the train, or even in Chicago, or up in Boston, he'll be entirely on his own. If pain comes shooting through him and he turns the snow rosy, there will be nobody to help him.

How desperate and reckless with misery must he be if he's still eager?

And he isn't the only one reckless with misery. Inconsolable, Medic sits in the last light of his own office and does nothing but worry. He has not eaten anything. He won't. How could he? It would come up again, with all of his fears, and all of this certainty that it's his fault.

Scout used to so damn happy. So content with life, and sure, he was obnoxious and acerbic, but he liked life, and he liked himself. And now he's miserable, and lost. Medic doesn't even recall the last time Scout smiled, really smiled and meant it. He did that: whatever he said or did that had some kind of sway on the boy's decision has lead them to this very moment, and it kills him.

If anything happens to Scout, he will be too late.

Heavy tells him again. "Scout made a choice. Is not very good choice. But now we wait."

Still miserable, Medic looks at him. He feels o old. So tired. He has seen too many lifetimes worth of this suffering. "I could have done something." He says. "I should have given him another choice."

"Is not important now.  _Is not_. Scout is smart, nyet?" such patience and certainty. The kind of gallantry and foolishness Medic knows too well. He takes off his spectacles, slowly, and rubs his eyes. It hurts him, but he manages to smile, and put a hand on Heavy's shoulder. The man is warm and there and tangible, and he isn't sure if he deserves it, or if he's dreaming it. "You are tired."

"I'm exhausted." Medic tells him. He has been exhausted for years. How can Heavy not resent him for all of his foolishness? For all of his wandering around after Scout, struck, and silly and deluded: why would a boy full of life choose to waste away with one already so world-weary? Trembling, he lays a hand on Heavy's neck, and then moves it slowly to his cheek, and his voice is a tremolo to say the least. "You must think me pathetic."

Heavy laughs at him. "Great man. Credit to team."

"Don't you-"

It's for his own good. Medic is a mess of rambles and paranoia and wasted years, following after good intent in places it should not speak. It is also long overdue, years of starved glances, and of a heart full of love—love like sunlight. And it is so dark. In a single movement, grace unbefitting Heavy's own form, he moves forward and steals Medic with an unashamed and true kiss.

He must love him so terribly and truly. Medic can tell, he can, and it frightens him because he does not at first recognise it. He mistakes it for something else.

And it doesn't even bear mentioning how serene Medic looks out on the field, below the sodium sky, or how charming his laughter is, how quick his mind works. How quick he is to attend to the team, how good he is, and how much he suffers. It takes one look to know, from the outside, that Scout does not love him: could not love him. It takes one look to know Medic doesn't see that.

Heavy steals the very air from his lungs and Medic is gasping for air so suddenly. "H-how long?" He stammers.

"Years."

"You never said." Medic protests weakly. "You never did. Not even when he-"

"Were not mine to keep, Doktor."

All Medic can do is laugh at him. He laughs, as if hysterical, as if speaking with some kind of apparition, and begins to shake his head wildly. His face is white as the wreath of a dead man. It comes to him, in a moment, all of these little warning signs, of him standing close, outside of the field, of him being the first to Medic's aid. Of when, on his first month there, when he could stand the heat any longer and fainted, he had woken up in Heavy's shade, offered water and rest. And the rest of the team, in his mind, looking on, all of these years, and how could he possibly not see this coming?

"I'm sorry." He whimpers. "I really thought –I really thought that he-"

Heavy kisses him again, softer, gentler. It's not something he is used to, but it's something that agrees, deeply. Like a suspicion he has always held, but never up to any light. He melts against it, withering, shaking.

"You are tired, Doktor." He's told. "Rest."

It's not like Medic doesn't want to. It's not like he wants to actually sleep for the first time in so many years, but excuses come to come, stick to him like those barbs all over again, and it starts up like a great machine –ich, ich, ich…

"Mine is the only phone." He says, desperately. "If he were to call-…"

"Phone will be answered. Sleep."

Medic trudges into bed the most conflicted he has ever been. Heads or Tails? Black or white –dead or alive? Are these choices, or perspectives? Is pining for Scout any different an ending than being pined for by Heavy? He sees heads, he sees tails. And in his dreams, the coins are blank, they put them over his eyes as he rests, but he uses them as bus fare, just to get back to look for an answer. The coins keep flipping, he keeps falling, he keeps dying, and waking, until, at last, he falls into a sleep so consuming, his dreams cannot pierce the darkness.

The phone stays silent.  
  
-  
  
Under another darkness, another two whisper, but differently. There whispers are the colours of cigarettes, and their words the kind that play with you at night.

"He's gone home." Spy says. He hisses it, like an urgency, to a man that should not care, but does.

"You can't know." The man refutes him.

"I can." Spy is quick to retort. "I can, and I do. He's going to Boston, I promise you. Where else would he go?"

That one stumps them both a little. It's the realisation that nobody much wants or ever asks for: how well do they know Scout? What do they know of his ambitions, his plans, his memories? Because neither can say it's ever occurred to ask. They can't say it has ever meant a great deal over asking for a little bit of spark that scout always saved for the mattress. They both pause.

"And you're-"

Nobody ever expects much of Scout. People don't expect him to leave in the night. And they don't expect a phonecall.

-  
  
Chicago is the whiteout it was promised to be. Scout is drowned in clothes to keep out the ever present cold. The glass of the phonebooth is obscured with frost and condensation and Scout is merely a mirage from the outside looking in. He lets the dialtone rings carelessly in one hand and leans heavy with the other. His fingers feel raw despite the gloves.

He isn't sure what the time is, but it's not much later than half ten. The darkness is ruined by the neon of the city.

The phone keeps on ringing. Doc's number is scrawled hastily onto a strip of stray paper. He taps impatiently. "C'mon," He moves his hand from the receiver and cocks his head to keep it against his ear. One hand secures him against the wall and the other strokes absently over his stomach. Lovelessly, he's sure.

After an eternity, the line clicks. And he's through.

"Hullo?" He listens hard, expecting to hear Medic right away. He does not.

"Mister Weiss."

" _Miss P?"_  He nearly drops the receiver in flight.

"How is Chicago for you?" She sounds angry. But no anger like Scout knows it. Something closer to venom. Something tells him he shouldn't expect a warm welcome on his return. He looks around, cutting his eyes from side to side, before speaking.

"It's snowing like hell, wouldn't you know." He says, easily. "I really do have to get going if I don't want to miss my train, though." Outside, there is no threat but a city alive. He missed the sound of the city. And the smell of it. He missed feeling Christmas as it is supposed to be.

Miss Pauling doesn't like that one bit. "You get on that train, and you're done. So help me, I will make your contract to RED null."

Now, that one-…that one halts him in his way. He swallows, and feels the heat rise in his face. RED is home to him, too, and he knows that they are both necessary to him. How can she make such a threat? "You wait a second." He says, carefully. "I never did nothin' wrong."

"I have your replacement right here." She says. "I can upgrade his contract right this second."

Scout is winded by it. He curls in and shakes his head. "Don't do that." He mumbles. "Please." It's not like him to say please. Then again, despite his impulsivity, it's unlike him to take the first train out of Teufort in the middle of the night. It's safe to say that Scout doesn't really know who he is anymore. He takes her silence as a kindness. "You gotta let me go. I won't be long, I promise."

"You have gone far enough, Mister Weiss. I'm afraid this is your  _last_  stop." Her voice is hard as steel. She speaks as if she feels nothing, not even the slightest twinge of remorse, or gladness. "If you test me, be sure, you will fail."

The line clicks again, and he is left nothing but darkness, no room to negotiate, no room to breathe. Eyes watering -pulse racing. He slams the receiver onto the hook and bends double, gasping. Every convulsive twist of his body screams at him, what the hell has he done? Go back now, or never return. Boston is only a train-journey away, and so is Teufort. He hisses.

Another two quarters go into the coin slot, and he waits again, still paralysed with indecision, and some kind of dull pain. It takes an eternity for the phone to be answered. And when it does, he nears cries with relief to hear the line click.

"Medic?"

"What do you think you are doing?!" Still no Medic. No sympathy to be found in the least. Spy is as sharp and hard and he always has been, but more human than Miss Pauling was. Hearing his voice ruins Scout, and he feels something cracking in his throat. Oh, Jesus, he doesn't want to cry. He's through with crying. "Scout?"

"Get me Medic, p-please." He mumbles. "I wanna talk to him."

The man's voice doesn't change. Of course it doesn't. What the hell do these people care? "I 'ave no reason to do any such thing. What on earth do you think you're doing! Where are you?"

Scout whimpers again, and feels his legs failing. He slides down one wall of the booth helplessly, and trembles. "I don't know." He sniffs. "I'm in –I'm at Union Station. In Chicago." Sick with grief, eh throws a hand over his eyes and groans. "I jus' wanna go home. Please."

Ignorant, Spy makes a derisive noise, scoffing down the phone. The man would always make a nod feel like a congressional medal of honour, and a kiss a slap in the face. "What means do I 'ave to stop you?" Scout thinks, he must know. He must have been there, jeering wordlessly when Pauling issued her threat. But apparently not. He tries to sort himself out, In order to speak clearly.

"She said –she…Miss P, she told me t-that if I got on the train, she'd-…she said she'd give me the s-s-sack." Scout swallows. He turns from sad to bitter and bright with rage. "I jus' wanna go home!" Voice splitting into a weaker, shriller sounds, he shouts down the phone, and then feels himself become overwhelmed again.

"She won't do that." He says, quietly. The voice on the other end of the phone becomes diminished with thought. "She couldn't-…" And then, after an eternity, in which Scout tries to control himself and Spy seems to be thinking of the right words for the wrong day, the silence is broken. "If you're going, then go."

"…what?" He sniffs out some word. Some word that's sorry to miss him from anywhere else.

"Go. I'll think of something. That you're staying in an 'otel for the night. It doesn't matter."

That hits him like a bullet in the back. He rises, very slowly, out of breath and still leaning, but with some kind of hope. Because is Spy is offering his help, to hell with the odds, and the expense, that's something. Something bubbles up from his throat and when he expects to start sobbing he lets out an incredulous laugh, instead.

"You'd…you'd help-"

"You think me cruel." Spy laughs, gently. "Just this once, alright? Just this once. Are you well?"

For once, despite the pain he's in, or how sick he feels, Scout wipes his face down and nods. "Yeah," he says, as if to convince himself. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"From here, you're on your own." And the line dies into silence.

Stiffly, he marches out into the station and reads the train times. Twice, for good measure. There is a train headed to New Mexico in two minutes.

But the train to Boston is already there.


	20. XX

By the time he pulls into Fenway, Scout can already hear the singing.

It's like a host of angels, divine their voices. It's only december first, but they're going for it with rapturous abandon. On the end of the platform, a group of them are bundled: and it' that kind of nuclear family that make you sneer from the fallout. Perfect, smiling faces. Children huddled in front stumbling over the words, with mother's guidance and father's serene smile.

For all of ten seconds, it's nice.

But Scout doesn't do nice. Not when nice conjurers up images of his mother, and the Man that made her cry, or a brief, passing still of Danny and his wife huddled on the edge of the platform, singing with a drawl so slanted, it would Ma stiff with pride and in front of them, some snotty, red-nosed little kid that belongs to the dusts of Australia, or foreign snows of Germany, of the tart flavour of french wine.

It takes him energy to peel off of the seat, grappling at the invisible arms of the carriage wall. Once he's steady, which does take a minute, he slings his bag over his shoulder and makes his way onto the platform. It's sticky with snow, just like Chicago, but Scout is a Southie boy, and this is the kind of winter he knows. The kind he has mastered.

Despite the hurry everybody's in, he pulls a few stares, and ignores them, mostly. As if he has the energy to care much at all.

He passes the kitsch little choir as their song finishes, hoping to continue moving on, to home, to Fenway park. See the hopeful highschool batters trembling in their cages, and see the split fence around Ma's house as soon as possible. But he is halted by a cheery voice.

"Spare some change for those less fortunate?"

There is nobody less fortunate than Scout. It's the quaint, smiling one that speaks to him, the father, and when he turns with is face down and stuffs a hand into his bag, he is nauseous with resentment.

Hastily, he stuffs some soggy bills into the guy's outstretched hand and grunts a little. "Merry christmas an' all, pally." There must be about two hundred dollars there, and when the guy, stunned, puts it into his neat little pot he is breathless.

"Merry christmas to you too." And then, when Scout thinks he's free, the hand plants itself on his shoulder in a clap that is too hard to be friendly. "Hang on a sec, pal –is that –you're Mrs Weiss' kid, ain't you? Scout, right?"

When he turns around again, pained and hurried, the guy's whole face is lit up, and he's laughing like they're old friends or something grand like that. It's so fake, and forced, and the guy's sweet, domesticated little wife is talking to his even sweeter kids in this awful white frock. She's probably about six months pregnant, too, and the whole thing is enough to give Scout diabetes.

The guy is still waiting for some kind of response, and Scout has no idea what to do. The guy does the talking for him.

"You remember me, right, kid?" He beams. "Ernie Ackley."

Oh, Christ. Scout thinks he'll flop onto the snow-stuck platform right then and there, unable to process the words over the insane mishmash of yells and trains. Sure, he remembers Ernie. He remembers Ernie's voice, and his fists, and the way Ernie's rope stung his wrists. And he'll remember it until the day he dies. In every dream the vision comes plunging before his helpless sight, of fucking Ernia Ackley's pretty little bruises that still hurt, even though they full off seven years ago. Even being called 'kid' is enough to make Scout bristle.

"Listen." He continues. "I'm real sorry about highschool. Boys were jus' bein' boys, y'know? An' we couldn't have the whole thinkin' Ma Weiss' boy was a fagg-"

Scout is taught with rage. He can feel his hands, already curled into political statements, threatening to act. And why shouldn't he? Boys like Ernie Ackley used to hit so hard and true that you'd think it was their only language: one of fear and hate and intolerance and they spoke it like it was their native tongue.

Scout hears himself talk with the kind of resolve Medic would admire. "It doesn't matter now." He says, woodenly. All he wants to do is find a hotel and rest, a little. His beck aches and his joints are sore and what makes it worse is having every nightmare's supporting actor beaming neatly at him like some phony right out of a magazine.

"Quite right." Ernie smiles to him. "I'm sure you sorted yourself out in the end. You know my wife, Sally."

The dutiful little mother was indeed Sally, a distant memory from a distant time in Scout's past. She had always been a quiet girl, not much to say for herself, and raised believing the best she could hope to achieve was an injection of jock genetics. Above everything, Scout feels sorry for them.

"You must be doing quite alright for yourself." Ernie lifts his hand again. "Be honest, how much do you make?"

And Scout wishes he hadn't done that: asked him to be honest.

"What do I make?" He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and hopes they'll put it down to the flare of his coat, and not the bump straining against it, because, honestly? It's the last thing he needs to happen. "I make bigoted little punks like you bleed every day."

That strikes Ernie like a muted slap across the face. "I-I'm sorry?" The man strives for civility, but Scout won't give him that pleasure.

"You heard me, Ernie, kid." He says. "I mean, sure, I know you can throw a mean punch, but I'd say I'm a keener shot than you." Scout could go on: that's the problem He really could, and he really wants to. Wants to grab the guy by the throat and squeeze all of the answers out of him, where he got the rope, why he tied him to the fence, why he punished him so goddamned much for something Scout couldn't even help.

But it has been eight years. Scout is bored of his ignorance now, and knows better than to believe Ernie's version of 'good'. Frankly, the guy isn't worth the fight. So, all he says is, "I ain't gonna hold it against you, pally. Season to be jolly an' all."

As he turns, he throws one last glance over his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Ernie."

And when he walks off, boy, you had better believe that he has never felt so damn validated in his whole life. He marches right up the station steps, makes a sharp left, and then leans heavy on the bridge railings.

In a moment, he's slumped onto the snow, laughing hysterically, unable to control himself. And he can see his laughter, a thick cloud of joy. Perhaps the most deserving, too. Scout doesn't breathe –he can't, the air rushes from him before he can spend it, because alive is what this moment is, and breathing isn't relevant at all.

"Oh, Jesus," He gasps, lifting a hand to his head. "Oh, man." Eventually, though, he stands up on shaky legs and continues across the bridge, under the black, starry sky. It's not ten seconds after that he begins to feel so unsettled, and so incredibly conflicted that he can feel his eyes watering. It's as if he'll cry at anything, thesedays, despite the turbulence of everything very recently. Seeking comfort, he stops off in the town and gets a cheap coffee. It tastes like steam, but he drinks it down anyway, amused by the kicks he receives in response.

First order of business is the skating rink. It closes at eleven, you see, so all the workers can be home for midnight, and Scout only has forty minutes or so left.

There used to be a fast food joint in front of it, and his brothers used to take their girls their after skating. It has been replaced with a parking lot, and a new hardware store. The rink is still there, but looks minuscule, and shabby, dwarfed by the coloured, fancy lettering on the new store. It makes him terribly sad.

Still he goes in, and gets a pair of skates. He's shakier on the ice than he remembers, but picks it back up eventually, and stuffs his hands back into his pockets when he's sure he won't fall.

It's just as serene as he remembers it. There's a peace that ten dollars have bought him, gliding around the rink remembering all the times he'd been before, as a snotty little kid or an obnoxious, confused teenager. Not much has changed, he guesses. He remembers laughing when Robbie slipped trying to do some trick he's seen Jeb do and sprain his ankle. They'd laughed about that for weeks.

Jeb stopped going eventually. Said the place was too small for him. It was like Boston was shrinking every second, becoming this little paper town, and Jeb had to experience life in colour. And, for a while, Scout stopped going, too, disillusioned by Jeb's platitude. Now, of course, he can see it. The shrinking, right before his eyes.

He doesn't linger long. It wears him out so damn quickly, that outside, on a park bench, he recovers from his short exertion. There is a little pain across his abdomen and back, but he'll live with it. Scout will be damned before he goes back to Teufort in a hurry, let alone in Medic's care.

He walks the rest of the way down to the old hot dog stand that never closes. Or, at least, where it was. The memory stands there, in the street, vivid against the emptiness, and it gets smaller and smaller until, just like the bitter reality of the winter, there is nothing there. He's sort of crying –Scout doesn't know. It's dumb, but everything before him is fading. Even the moment he's standing in will be gone soon.

Remember it. Save it. Maybe Scout still can.

He wants to keep walking, desperately, but he's dog-tired from the trip, and from the walk up half-known roads. If he goes across Harvard bridge, he knows he'll find that same slew of hotels that are always across from Fenway Park under different names. There are the economy ones that relatives would stay in during visits, only a stone' throw from any Red Sox game. On Commonwealth Avenue, the real swanky hotel Commonwealth is still in business. On the rare ball game, they'd pass it on the way back, and he remembers wanting to go inside, and sit on their plush red couches and eat their tiny, dark chocolates. As a kid, he'd said that one day he'd be rich –rich enough to stay there, even if it was just for a night.

Still sort of crying, and numb with cold, he reaches into his crummy bag and pulls out another handful of notes. Easily, there's five-hundred in his hand. Even with all of the nonsense and luxury and needless opulence charged with just a place to sleep, Scout figures he'll have enough.

Not to pay. Of course he''s got enough for a room. But, usually, you have to have a suit, and a girl, and a swagger that Scout can't walk with because his back is throbbing with a dull ache. No, the rest is the apology on behalf of his accent, and his clothes, and his incessant, dumb tears. He won't apologise for his kid just yet, though.

The building hasn't changed must. Same glamorous look, with a careful measure of age, and dust. Even the people inside have collected just the right amount of dust. The moment Scout passes through the polished, glass door of the main entrance, he knows he's treading on ground that is not his. The red couches are now a royal purple. But the chocolates are still there.

Tinsel is strewn everywhere. There are ten more trees than necessary at least, and the whole place reeks of pine.

A woman at the desk is waiting, in a trance with perfect posture. Her face is entirely blank until she spots him, and then her lip curls right up in disgust, like some kind of candy red sea creature.

"Are you lost, sir?" Is what she asks him. Scout is so tired. He doesn't even see the insult.

He taps on the counter, despite having her attentions, and yawns. "Yeah, can I get a single r-"

She points her pen at him as if to draw blood. Jesus, if this is how the other half live, or how they are, then Scout is glad he comes from 'having something to cry about'. Fro a moment, they're both silent until the neat little blonde pipes up. "Is there snow on your shoes?"

Scout doesn't even look down. It's still snowing, for Christ's sake. You'd think somebody who works a hotel with glass doors would think to look. "Yeah?"

"Did you just track-"

"Yeah?" He rolls his eyes. "Lady, I'm jus' lookin' for a room. Can you do that?"

Now, she doesn't like that. Not a bit. She bites her tongue viciously and looks at him with nasty eyes. It's awkward, and intense, despite the lack of complete spectators. After a while, she leans back, all proper, and waves a blasé hand.

"If you're looking for a room to stay for a 'Red Socks' game," She says it wrong, but with such distaste. "Then there's a cheap little joint down the road."

Exhausted, he leans on the counter and sighs. Pulling some soggy notes out from the bag, he lays about six hundred dollars on the counter in front of her, and wipes them out so they lay straight. "That'll cover it, yeah? Single room, double bed, breakfast, alright?"

At least she's quick about it. He doesn't really care for the change, but takes it anyway, and makes sure to find his own way to his room. Pausing at the stairs, he takes to steps back into the lobby, and leans around the door.

"Hey, lady!" he calls. "Lady!" When she looks up, he grins. "It ain't baseball season, neither."

There's no snow in Albuquerque. Nervous, he checks his ticket, and then checks it again because he doesn't trust it the first time. But the cities and departures are right. And he has a little time to kill anyway. Leaning against the outside payphone, he throws a glance over his shoulder of no good reason and dials for a man more than a location. He's there on Spy's word, after all.

"Are you there?"

He laughs against the bitter air. "Christ." He mutters. "Plane leaves in another half an hour. I'm stuck here until then."

He hears the nerves inflect in Spy's tone, not that the bastard would ever admit it. It's there, though, and that's enough to be suspicious over. "We have not heard anything more from him."

"Wouldn't think so." he says, and frowns. "It's not like you to care this much over anybody, Spook. You got a soft spot for the kid?"

Of course Spy laughs at him. There is no other appropriate response for such behaviour. Such honesty that is rare and unbecoming of both of them. Nobody ever admits it, because it's unpleasant and the kid's ego couldn't use it, but he's needed, and useful, and somehow, loved. More so than Spy's going to admit to. More so than any of them will. Or at least, to eachother.

"Oh, don't be so whimsical, it doesn't suit you." Spy snaps at him, half in play, and half in defence of the man he wishes he could be, instead of what he really is. Sniper knows better because he has seen a thousand different versions of Spy, all of them fierce and meek and different. "He is a pretty little fool."

"You might have lead everybody else to believe otherwise, you know." Sniper barks out a laugh and claps his jacket pocket to make sure he's got something to smoke in the airport. "Never heard you call him that when he rolls your cigarettes."

Spy hisses like an angry cat. "And you say quite remarkable things when he crawls to your mattress, dear."

Now, he's just being nasty. They both leave the air hanging in silence, breathing down the phone to eachother like a stuttering apology.

Spy decides to speak first. "You better catch your plane."

Sniper takes him at that, and thinks about hanging up. He lingers, though, held back by a man who doesn't even know it. "You sure he's there?"

"I'm certain."

"I'll call when I land, then." That's it, he supposes. He doesn't mention that he's more willing to go, for Scout, or that he thinks Spy has always been indulging himself in the kid. Maybe Spy is less hedonistic than he'd have the word believe, or maybe they just don't know eachother as well as they always assumed. "And I'm sorry. About me."

Spy says, "I know." And he hangs up first. The bastard.

Fenway park is the silent salient out of the large window.

Scout leans on the sill of the window and just watches the city continue. The park is quiet. The shivering batters are probably all asleep, and the only people visible are coming home, drunk, or lost. He guesses he missed the slew of tourists, and is kind of glad.

He feels like a tourist, though. Just a little. Here he is, in the city, seeing sights that might not be obvious, but are still like landmarks to him. And some are no longer there, or are changed –less worthy of the glory in his mind. But here he is, visiting them.

It keeps on snowing. The window is tacky with condensation and frost. Before long the view is too soft for Scout's liking, and he becomes bored, standing himself up and wandering back over to the bed. He'd asked for a double, but it's much too big. In all of his life, he's never seen one so enormous. You could fit at least four guys in it, comfortably. Years of a penniless childhood makes his estimation accurate.

In fact, it's too big, that's the problem. There isn't anybody's hot breath in his ear no matter how far he moves. There's no warm body, or twitchy, dream-paralysed limbs. Not even a grunt of complaint when Scout rolls onto his right side and takes all of the sheets with him. Scout finds it very difficult to find himself sleepy like this.

For a little while, he watches old re-runs of '77 Sunset Strip', but it doesn't do anything to comfort him much. Even Roscoe, as obnoxious as he can be, is surrounded by people. After half an episode, he switches it off, finding himself bored again. He sits with his legs crossed and picks up the telephone in his room. The receiver is heavy.

He wants to tell somebody –somebody real, who exists as a constant, what's going on. He can't believe how this place has found him, and maybe somebody else can help him make sense of feeling like he's forgotten every word to his favourite song, despite how much meaning they once carried. There was a stuck-up little punk who walked the same streets, held the same ideals, started the same fights, and he knew where he was walking to and from. Scout needs a compass –no, he needs to work out where that kid went.

He dials for Teufort because he needs to.

It doesn't take very long at all.

"Das ist obszön frühen." The voice grumbles. The voice he's been asking for for hours. It doesn't matter where Medic was when he was needed, because he's there now, and Scout is damn glad of it.

"Did I wake ya, doc?" He asks, in a small voice. He knows Medic likes his coffee, and knows just how. With his free hand, he curls the phone cord around his wrist like a single handcuff. On the other end of the line, there's some scrambling, and Medic clears his throat, voice all scritchy with alertness.

"You've got some nerve. Where are you calling me from at this hour?" He doesn't answer Scout's question. Nobody ever answers his questions: about his fears, or his father. It's been over twenty years and nobody's told the truth.

"I'm in some hotel a little ways walk from my Ma's –The Commonwealth, but I ain't been to see her." The details are irrelevant to the question that was explicitly asked, but Medic is a pretty implicit guy. He's fishing, like always. Maybe Scout has broken some of the rules here, but only the ones he thinks don't apply in the moment. He knows he can't visit his family, and let them know anything at all. That breaks one of the few rules he still operates under. "I'm okay." He says, a little breathless.

For a while, Medic doesn't say anything. And then he breaks.

In a rough vice, he whimpers. "Damn you, Scout." He laments, helplessly. "What if something had happened to you? What did you think would happen if you got fired? Or if you went into labour-"

Scout winces and opens his mouth to speak, finding only the most useless sentiments. "I don't know." He says, uselessly. It's not what anybody wants to hear, but it's true. He didn't think: for all of his money, he couldn't afford to. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-..." He leans his forehead on his hand and tries his best not to sink into regret. "I didn't mean to scare ya or nothin'."

"Well, you did!" Suddenly agitated, Medic shouts at him. It plays on Scout's instinct, and he curls up right away, expecting a strike. He should have steered clear of this phonecall and Medic's voice lest he burn up in the man's atmosphere. But Medic calms fast and his voice is awfully tender when he pipes up again. "you were gone, and there was nothing I could do-"

"I know."

"I'm supposed to look after you. How can I do that if you're across the country?"

That could be sweet. It really could be, in the same way that Scout could resign to love Medic, and resign to stay with him. But he won't, so he scoffs down the phone, sore with bitterness. "I don't need lookin' after! Man, I knew you'd do this. I don't even know why I called." The man threatens to interrupt the second after he speaks, but is cut short by a very abrupt pain that stabs him deep just below the navel. It catches him so off-guard that he drops the receiver, biting into his palm to quiet the pathetic noise he had just made. When it lessens and goes, which it foes, eventually, he scrambles for the receiver in the sheets and presses it against his ear again.

"Doc?" He mumbles, yawning.

"Are you alright?" Frantic with worry, Medic answers him in a second. Scout used to have so much more energy. He used to find everybody else dull, and now he struggles to keep up with any of them. "Are you hurt?"

"Yeah, I think you jus' deafened me, man." He grumbles, sitting back up, slowly, as if afraid to trigger whatever he had just been feeling and worry Medic any more than need be. "I'm not gonna visit my Ma, don't worry. An' I'll be back real soon, alright?"

"Scout-"

"I said, I'll be back soon. I'll call ya an' stuff. I'm fine." He lets Medic nod, and says nothing about the loneliness, or mentions nothing about the hideous, tightening pain he had felt in the phonebox, or just moments ago. No, he makes an art of it, and even plasters on a smile to try to convince himself that everything is okay. "Goodnight, Doc." He says.

Forlornly, after a moment. "Goodnight, Scout."

Scout thinks about the phonecall for a very long time afterwards. He stares up at the ceiling and listens to the traffic dying into silence outside, rubbing little circles on the lower half of his abdomen, waiting to fall asleep, waiting to forget the world for ten solid hours. He thinks, with a small, begrudging smile, that he got his wish.

Now, he's never alone.

In the hotel bar the next morning, Scout is only trying to butter a bit of toast to eat when everything goes wrong.

A porter shows another guy to a seat. Because of the season, there aren't all too many customers. A gloomy old couple sit in the corner, resenting eachother silently, decrepit as the hotel bricks. Some businessman who was on the phone all last night is indulging in a bourbon, despite the hour. The wisp of a girl he's with could be a courtesan or his daughter, it's not clear. There are others, too, but that's the moment Scout notices who's being seated, and he wants to die.

At first, all Scout can see is his dark hair, and he doesn't care much. But the guy shrugs off his coat and pops a cigarette into his mouth. Scout recognises the stark RED shirt at the same time he recognises the cigarette brand, but only just before he watches the guy light it with a one-handed little flourish that belongs to Spy.

There is also a little bruise, Scout can only just make out from knowing what to look for, under the guy's right thumbnail, from where he catches it on the breech of his bolt-action rifle.

"Fuck." He says, out loud, and when he realises he's gone and said it, Scout drops onto the floor at the side of his booth. Sniper is a little ways in front of him and to the right, so, for now, he's hidden. When he peeks up a little, he can see how exhausted the man looks, but also how alert his eyes are. He's here for Scout, that much is obvious, but he must know he's close.

Dropping back down again, Scout curls his wrist over the tabletop and reaches his empty glass. He takes his jacket off of the seat, too, and rocks forward on his feet, as if to prepare for an escape. When the stirrings have died down the in the wake of his shock, Scout throws the glass as hard as he can across the room, so it hits the far wall with a fantastic crash. Everybody's looking up, now, and at the broken bottle. It gives Scout enough time and cover to slip across the row of seats and to the door, standing hurriedly and slipping out of the entrance as he shrugs on his jacket.

As soon as he's out of sight, he flattens himself against the wall adjacent to the entrance and takes a breath in, trying to get his thoughts together. What the hell has Sniper followed him for? Jesus, do they think he's so incapable of looking after himself?

There's the flipside, though, and he catches himself smiling. Boy, he hates to admit it, but he misses Sniper, sometimes. Misses the way he smells, and the way he looks when he just woken up. The way Scout thinks about people is broken. On any level, he finds it hard to conceptualise them as human beings, any one of them. He'll either revere them as gods or dismiss them as animals.

Scout realises he's being talked to, too late, and looks up in panic. The bored little receptionist is looking at him with glazed eyes "Is something wrong, sir?"

He swallows. "I jus'-" Oh, hell, it's going to sound weird whatever way he says it, so he might as well say it. "I jus' thought I saw somebody, that's all." from her face, he can tell she's buying none of it. Scout would love to bullshit her, because he's a great liar, and usually an excessive one, but he can't risk being overheard.

Scout has some notes in his coat, and he knows there are at least four diners on this street alone. He doesn't mind having breakfast elsewhere if it means he can skip the sermon he'll receive. How could he leave, with those odds of him dropping dead so high?

Scout bristles at his own thoughts. More like, how could he stay there for any longer, driven stir-crazy by hours in Miss P's office, miles of dust, and days of nothingness consuming him? He dusts down his thighs and walks towards the main set of glass doors, having had enough. It's still sticky with snow, but he doesn't mind, and pushes the door against the wind. He's half in and half out when he's called back.

"Scout?"

For a second, Scout is frozen, leaning forward against the door. His eyes go all wide , and he trembles, expecting to be shouted at, expecting something but this poignant, tired stare. That's all it takes –a second, and he starts to walk right out of the hotel, as briskly as he's can physically manages, down through he snowy street. Of course, Sniper is in hot pursuit.

"Scout, dammit!" He starts to jog. And scout would be sprinting down the boulevard, uncatchable, unbelievable. If he could. But he's stuck at a snail's pace, caught up with in seconds, and it's pathetic. When Sniper slings a hand on his arm, he shakes it off.

"Quit following me!" He hisses, attracting passer-by's attention for a couple of seconds. In the middle of the street, Scout is very still, and very hard in the face. "You ain't supposed to be here!"

"Well-" Sniper grabs him again, and doesn't seem to care that his grip is hard. "You're not supposed to be, either! What the hell were you playing at, running off?"

Jesus, the bullshit is starting up again. What does Sniper care? Is he trying to protect his genetic investment or something? Because he's started a little late, and Scout can look after himself. "I am not a kid!" He barks. "What are you playin' at, followin' me here?" Scout shoves him. "What do you care?"

Sniper lets the kid shove him. Lets him be angry, because god only knows how he'd feel if he was in Scout's shoes, cast adrift in a sea of misguided ghosts. What has Scout got aside from memories? Who does he have, really?

The kid is entirely alone. It's sad. That's the worst part. Scout's story is a tragedy, and too often the marks left on him, even by lovers, are scars. He has left some of those scars there.

Scout wipes down his face and then shakes his head "I jus' need to be on my own, alright. I need –I need to get away. Jus' for a goddamn day without you all losin' it, for Chrissake!" The pain and confusion is entirely evident. The kid believes his own lies. Believes his own propaganda, so what can Sniper say? He doesn't, and it makes Scout all the more bitter.

"You didn't come here to see if I was okay, did'ja?" He laughs, bitterly. "Well, if you came for this kid, you can get stepped on, for all it's worth. For all that shit you gave me, now is a real odd time to start carin!"

Sniper remains the salient in the street, looking down at his shoes, a barrier of crossed arms across his chest. He looks at Scout impatiently, as if bored of hearing about his past betrayals. When Scout is done with it, trying to restore his breathing, does he speak.

"I came here to take you home."

"I am home!"

"Quit fucking around, goddammit!" He snaps. "So help me God, I will follow you around wherever you go, Scout, and I can do this for a lot longer. You gonna be mature about this?"

Scout never gives him a functional answer, but instead spits at his feet and gives him the finger. "I told you to go get stepped on, asshole."

He starts walking off again, into the now densely-crowded pavement. In a moment, he's lost from Sniper's sight, and all that's left is a warm patch of frothy saliva on the bright snow. It's going to be an uphill fight, that's for sure. The city is big, and Scout knows it's by-streets a lot better.

It's going to be a long day.


	21. XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a tech failure. 21 was posted as 20 so a huge bit was skipped out. i don't like machines. this was probably my bad.

When you live in a city long enough, you learn pretty fast what separates a tourist from a tenant.

Down the end of the street, Scout picks up a neat red hat for a dollar. Not because he's especially cold, or that it's especially nice, but because it's got 'tourist' written all over it. And it's only a buck, too, so he slips it on and hitches the front down the cover his face a little. He needs to get a pair of gloves, this time for practicality, but his coat is dull enough that he blends in well.

This is not a game, though. Scout really doesn't want to be found.

Being taken back would be like an arrest, cuffed and sat in the window seat of the next flight out, charged and serving his sentence. He doesn't want to endure all the eye-rolling and sighing and blaming. He doesn't want to hear their fake little worries, because if any of them really cared, they'd have been there to stop him getting on a train in the first place. In the thick of the crowd, he knows he's safe, for now, and lets himself smile, because he's winning. For now, at least.

He crosses the street with the pack, lost in their red scarves and gloves, and thick black coats. It's the first time he's thankful to be small. This isn't his side of town, though, and if he wants to get to the side of the city that's home, he'll have to cross Harvard Bridge and risk getting dragged back to the station, spitting and kicking. After crossing, he slips into an alleyway and continues down it, hurrying down another narrow turn and into another busy street. The thousand different versions of a full English leave him spoilt for choice and a little nauseous, but he's less likely to get caught. Scout doesn't have to be fussy. He goes into the first one hurriedly.

The place is pretty empty. It's got a cheap linoleum floor that's all slippy with wet snow. He slides to a table and makes an order for something that won't make him vomit: a hot chocolate and some kind of cereal. The waitress pliés with his menu and pirouettes around his table back towards the kitchen. He's at the back, and can just about see the street through the misty pane of the window and the obscurity of the traffic. When he's sure he's not been seen, Scout takes off the cheap, tacky hat and lets it sit on the table besides him. Really, it's nasty, but when he was a kid, he always wanted one.

After about an hour, the bell on the door clicks, and Sniper is leaning in. The guy has no blood in his face left, and his lips are all blue. Growing up where snow is more a myth than anything, Scout knows he hates the cold, but has run out of sympathy hen Sniper starts talking to the waitress, all distressed.

"You seen a kid come through here?" He asks. A kid? Scout would bristle at that, if he wasn't sinking lower onto his table to avoid being recognised. He really doesn't want to have to leave now. His seat is all warm and he hasn't finished his drink. Jesus, doesn't the guy have any courtesy? "About five-nine, in a black coat, walks a little funny?" Now he's just being rude.

Of course, the waitress is too busy doing her odd little dance around the restaurant to have paid Scout much mind, and even if she had, she doesn't really seem to be listening. "You from London, son?"

It takes all he has not to laugh at that. Scout grins to himself instead, picking at the tablecloth he has his chin on, sat as flat as he can in order not to be spotted. He can't go any lower at all, already half-lifting up the table he's leaning over. The cloth on it is plastic, and dirty and the rice in the salt is a nasty yellow colour. He isn't sure, suddenly, why he came.

"You seen him or not?" Sniper sounds pretty desperate. His voice is shaken with cold and a little hoarse, but Scout doesn't have much by way of sympathy for him, though. Let him freeze. He can always go back to Teufort, if it gets too cold for him here.

"Well, there's no need to be rude." She says, entirely innocently. Huffing and puffing, sick with misery and cold, Sniper lets the diner door close hard behind him, leaving a blast of cold air behind him and nothing else, thankfully. Scout gives it about ten seconds before he sits up again, grinning. Of course, he likes the rush of coming so close, and of hiding. Sure, he likes the fun, but he's very aware that it's not a game.

He gets the bill, and leaves, stuffing his hair up into the neat little hat and treading out into the snow again.

For about an hour, with regular breaks on park benches, he just walks around the city. The buildings are higher, and the cars are faster, and the streets are busier. How has so much changed in so little time? It's smaller, too. The streets don't extend as far as he imagines, and the by-streets are narrower. Or maybe he just has more trouble slipping down them. It's entirely cloudy out, but it's nice. Unlike any other time he's hurried through this part of the city, Scout allows himself to sit.

In his head, he keeps seeing Sniper, all weary, blue-lipped and tired. Maybe he doesn't care about Scout. That's more than likely. Whatever he came here for, it doesn't matter, because no matter how many times he changes his stripes, Scout can't help but see him for what he is. There are good intentions in what he's doing. There is honesty in Medic's frantic little questions, and in his scaldings. Scout doesn't want to be alone, he does want to be loved. And not like this, but it'll have to do.

He argues with himself for a long time before taking the long, perilous walk back to the hotel.

-

When Sniper was eleven, he saw his first chameleon. The thing snapped from colour to colour vividly, and the schoolkids stared, transfixed, until the silence was so unbearable that one kid was strangled to ask, "What's it's name?"

And it's keeper pointed to the little plaque that had Lawrence written on it. When the kids realised it was a shared name, they laughed uncontrollably, and twenty years later the irony finally hits him. It hits him like an empty budwesier bottle in the barfight that has become his everyday life. Chameleons, you see, have the ability to change their skin to match whatever is around them. They do it so often, they probably wouldn't even recognise themselves, and seem to think that being brave is far worse than being invisible-

Courage is not a chameleon's best attribute. And most days, it is not his, either.

And he isn't sure why he's thinking about this now, because it has months since he first turned yellow towards the only sunlight he had, and invisible to the needs of the other. He was been mentored by armies of chameleon's in a man's skin: told him to peel a woman like a tangerine, let her fruit fall crooked into the dirt and leave orchards in his rear-view mirror, and frankly, he isn't sure if he believe in that.

Because he thinks of Scout, and he thinks of changing his stripes to only one end, and it kills him. He has been taught how to wear the skin of man, and raise that skin like a flag.

And when he thinks about how yellow he had been –how quickly his colours changed, he has to wonder…what is he teaching the kid about men?

-

So they come to an impasse.

Scout finds him where they had left. Sniper sits awkwardly in the middle of one of the purple couches and stares at his hands. Maybe he's waiting for Scout. Maybe he's waiting for the first cab to the airport. It doesn't matter anyway. He sits, and Scout sits next to him, but does the listening, for once.

Without looking up, Sniper says, "I thought you told me to get stepped on." So coldly, that Scout doesn't want to believe his own legend.

"Maybe I talk too much." Scout retorts as fast as he can, not because he's particularly witty, or because he's really passionate. It's just something Sniper brings out of him. He always assumes that everything the guy says is an accusation or an insult. It's natural to assume he's being mocked thesedays. "What do you care?" He asks again, sneering. "I say shit I don't mean all the time."

"You might have fooled me." Sniper says, like he doesn't care at all, and if Scout didn't know him a little better, he'd really believe it. "You're always telling me I don't care. That nobody cares." He laughs, mirthlessly. "You think I'm here to see the sights, kid?"

Sights. Well, it's a sight right here, Sniper just staring forward, as if entranced, and Scout is just looking at him, at a complete loss for what to say. A little confuse or just unwilling to risk in belief, Scout nudges him with his shoulder. "Then what did you come for?"

When Sniper sits up, so suddenly, and fixes a hard gaze on him, Scout Is so sure he's going to get smacked for a question he does honestly need an answer to. Did Miss P threaten him, too? Or was It Medic? Because it's very out of character for him to come of his own accord. No, that would just be too much. After a while, Sniper laughs.

"You think you're the only one that's got feelin's, don't you?"

Scout rolls his eyes. Hard. "You didn't come here to talk to me about 'feelins', for Chrissake. I reckon-"

"Shut up for a minute, goddamnit!" Sniper hisses to him. "I said I'd find you. I volunteered. Not 'cause I care, for God's sake, but because I wanted to wander in the snow for an hour and a half for a kid in a dorky hat!"

"An' a funny walk, you moron." Scout murmurs. He can't contain a smile at that. Not because it's especially funny but because he needs the laugh.

Sniper wants to continue shouting, and he looks keen for it, until he breaks, and smiles just a little, too, thinly veiled as he shakes his head. "Kid, you got an army of hapless idiots willing to fly out for you." he sighs. "Would you believe me if I was somebody else?"

"Yeah." Scout says, honestly. "Yeah, I would. I know you, man." He brushes something off of his thigh and lets his hands rest there. "There's always a catch with you. Always. It's always the wrong time, or you're in the wrong mood, or I'm the wrong person."

"An' you always cry."

"Yep." There' no other response than a biting little laugh, because Scout isn't ashamed. He won't be relegated to a background character or a prop because he doesn't fit some abstract ideal of masculinity. Because he has the audacity be honest with himself. "I always cry. I'm fuckin' yellow. I always cry an' you always shout at me, and I'd always believe somebody else because nobody else fuckin' left me as soon as they-"

"That ain't fair." Sniper says, so weakly, even he doesn't believe it. Scout throws it back at him anyway.

"Yes, it is!" He cries. "What ain't fair is leavin' me. If it had just been you, an' you'da left me, what the hell would I have done?!"

"Lucky you had your bases covered." When Scout threatens to get even more venomous, and probably sock Sniper, because he always cries, and he always ends up hitting somebody, he holds up his hands. "Alright, calm down, I didn't mean it like that."

He never means it like he says it. That's the trouble with people: they don't hear it how it sounds. Scout tries not to read too much into it, but the signals he get are consistent, and he knows what Sniper thinks of him. And if he cared, or grew up with the same paradoxical ideals, he might say something. But he doesn't, and waits for Sniper to justify himself.

He never does.

Scout shakes his after a while. "It ain't never gonna work between us."

"What?" Is that worry in his voice? A hint at love? Yet, not a cute card or a kissogram. Sniper is trying to be honest.

"You never respected me." Scout says, growing in certainty.

"That ain't-"

"That's exactly it. Y'think I'm stupid. Y'think I get taken for rides with lots'a guys." Now, he is trying to be honest. Doesn't want to give Sniper his love, but an onion instead, because it will bring the same tears to his eyes and make his reflection a wobbling photo of grief. It's platinum loops could shrink to a wedding ring, if he'd like. Lethal: like love, it clings to his fingers. To his knife.

"Maybe you're right." Scout sighs. "Maybe I hustled outta Boston and got delusions'a grandeur, and think I'm too good for my roots, or whatever. But I know what I'm doin'." He laughs. "Can you play three guys, an' get what you want? Can you keep 'em happy?"

"I wouldn't make the mistake of havin' a kid."

"Mistake?" Scout raises an eyebrow. He wants to be angry, but half of him still thinks the same. "It ain't a-"

"Scout, come on. I ain't stupid, either." Sniper looks at him in such a strange way. Like he's going to predict the future. And he'll pontificate and he'll be right and Scout sill have to listen. "We both know the first thing you did when you found out you were pregnant. I'd have done the same. I'd have gone through with it."

Half of him thinks the same. He can see what the guy is saying, but for the first time, the other half of him wakes up from a comatose state of fear, and he feels very, very violently sick all of a sudden. A deep nausea in the pit of his stomach because there aren't words to express how happy Danny is, and how proud Ma would be of him, and how much Scout likes his choices.

He sneers, viciously. "A good thing we ain't the same." It isn't supposed to be as vitriolic as it sounds. Scout never means to get so damn crazy about things, but he cares. He can't help caring. And that's when his venom runs dry and he laughs a desperate little laugh. "I oughta thank ya. If you hadn't left me I'd still be some delusional spitfuck."

"I'm exactly proud of that, you know."

"Oh, I know." Scout laughs again. He jams his fists into his pockets and leans back in the chair. His back hurts. The midday finds him cold, still. "It's a little late for that, though, don'tcha think? I mean, I like my choices fine."

He gets this easy smile from Sniper that proves to be a false friend. The guy is never that tender –never that nice, and a good thing, too. It doesn't suit him. Sometimes Scout still misses the way the man smells, or his strength, or even the half-mumbled tunes he's hum when he woke up before Scout. Sometimes, Scout is weak and he wakes up scared to be himself and those memories are the only things that calm him down. "Of course you like your choices. You're the one having the kid."

"An' I'm all the luckier for it, pal." It's bullshit, but there's a dangerous flicker of belief lying beneath the ashes of Scout's old convictions. "I'm jus' sayin' that if this'd never happened, I would'a done everythin' with you. Ain't that awful?"

It isn't good to hurt people. But it is good to reciprocate. Scout knows what he's doing, like he always has to say. The intention isn't to play with Sniper's heart the way his whispers do in the dark, but instead to dress the grave of what they were. Neither of them are experts in ending relationships, that much is honest, but for Scout to re-establish his own worth, he feels he has to make a headstone for their relationship.

The trouble is, the burial is only over when the kid is gone.

It takes him a graceless little struggle to get up, holding the small of his back pathetically. But he does, eventually, and starts walking towards the elevator. It take Sniper to effort to move up from his seat, in a single motion, like water, and grab the boy's hand. "Where are you going?" He asks, all quiet in that way that suggests that Scout might actually have wounded him. It's hard to believe.

"I'm going to change, and get my stuff, an' visit a few places, an' then we can go."

"Go?"

"That's what you came for, right? I doubt you were scramblin' around out there for a missin' quarter." Scout grins at his own joke. He presses for his floor and leans against the elevator wall, tired. Tired from nothing, too. Could he be reminded of a time, just for a second, when they were both alive? Does anybody even remember that? "I jus' wanna do a few things, an' then we can go, an' I'll be good."

Sniper grunts. "Believe that when I see it."

The doors ding open, and Scout stumbles out first, fumbling with his room key. He says, "I oughtta sock you." But what he means is 'I missed you'. It doesn't matter if that part is heard or not. The subtext if often difficult to read. Instead of thinking much on it, Scout unlocks his room.

It's as bright and impressive as he remembers. The bed, now made, dominates the room with a suggestion that amuses Scout. The first thing he does is lay on it, and wrap himself up. He's cold, and tired, and could no with the rest.

Sniper lets out a low whistle. "You really went all out." From the bed, Scout makes a noise into the sheets and tries to shrug. He doesn't move for a while, too content to do so. When Sniper finds himself bored of the opulence of the place, he sits in the edge of the bed and pulls off the kid's shoes, and tires to unravel the sheets around him. "You can't fall asleep in a bloody coat and scarf."

Scout mumbles. "Well, I could."

Sniper tugs at the sheets again, and Scout rolls himself tighter, comfortable enough to never move again. He groans and kicks his feet when Sniper continues to fight him, before resigning to limpness. He rolls onto his back when the coat needs taking off, glad to have the band of exposed skin between the end of his shirt, and his trousers, hidden in she sheets. He yawns, and stretches out, giving the man room. With two people, the bed isn't so bad.

"What time you think we'll leave for the airport?" Sniper mutters against his shoulder. Maybe the guy just wants company, because he goes off and on Scout so much that cuddling, like this, feels strange. Well, scout has never been once to question providence. He sighs into it, and then pauses.

"Airport?"

"Flight to Albuquerque." It's said like the most natural thing in the world. "You don't like planes?"

"I like them fine." Scout says, quickly. He's been so unexposed and in fear of so much of the world that he's through with it. No more being afraid. He flies home every christmas, usually. Not this year. In a few weeks, Ma will be left with an empty seat at the table, and maybe she won't notice or care, but it will be there anyway. "I jus' thought we'd be goin' by train."

"That's a lot of exchanges." Sniper notes "And it takes much longer. But if you don't want to catch a flight-"

Scout makes a noise of discomfort and shrugs one shoulder. "I don't think it's supposed to be good for the kid is all. The cabin pressure an' all." He shrugs again because it makes him nervous, talking about it to Sniper. The man always makes it pretty clear which side of the gun he's standing on, and it;s usually behind the trigger. Hell, Spy has more to do with it. "Jus', would seem stupid to come all this way without a problem an' then have somethin' happen in the air."

"Nothing is going to happen." Sniper waves a dismissive hand. "I see women flying all the time when they're pregnant. Where are you getting this?"

"A book." Scout mutters, petulantly. He hates being compared to women. It isn't the same. They usually have more to lose, and less reason to be scared of gong out in public.

"What book?" Sniper is laughing at him. It makes Scout blush hard.

"Some book, alright?" He grumbles. "Some book that Medic was readin' that I had a glance at. I ain't pullin' this outta the air, for Chrissake."

Sniper stares at him sideways, like he's said somehting incredibly dumb. Once again, he's made a fool for caring. When Scout is neglectful, they resent him, but when he's warm, they laugh at him. He's tired of being made a fool of. He's tired of everything. So he shuts his eyes again and really thinks about going to sleep.

"I didn't know you could read." Is the only jest that comes out, eventually, but at that point he's through with it.

"Oh, fuck ya!" Scout starts to sit up. He kicks the guy as hard as the space allows and turns onto his other side, so that all Sniper has is his back. "I'm not stupid and you ain't funny for sayin' so." And yet, in a moment, he's feeling those broad, easy touches that manipulate words out of him, and a pair of arms that fasten around his shoulders like seatbelt hands, too late in the carcrash of this entire trip.

"I was only joking, you know." Sniper says, against his shoulder.

Scout has to bite back. "Try bein' funny, then." he grumbles. They stay like that, for a while. Scout can't say he hasn't missed company, but that isn't unique to Sniper. After all, a creature of habit has no real protection, or defence, and the habit has never been exclusive.

"Why did you come here?" the silence does waste away with the question. It is out-of-character, even for Scout, and all of his impulse, and truly, the answer isn't apparent right away. He shrugs to himself.

"It just got to me." He says, uselessly.

"What got to you?"

Rubbing his eyes, Scout sighs. "Same walls. Same place. Same shit, man." He waves a hand. "I was sick of bein' trapped there. It's only now that I-..."

With sad eyes, he regards Sniper, in all of his strength, and certainty, and Scout isn't sure what he sees, or what he can say he recognises. "It's only now I figured out that it wasn't the place that was trappin' me."

"I thought you liked your choices."

"Jesus, you don't have to be so goddamn smug about it!" Scout hisses, and then turns to stare at the ceiling with such intensity, that it's almost astounding. "I like my choices fine. I'm doin' something good. An' if had gotten rid of this kid, I wouldn't be any less happy, or any less...good, alright?" And then, smaller. "It ain't fair for you to get all mighty about it."

Sniper laughs, gently, and leans over, getting very close –too close, and Scout doesn't like it. He doesn't say anything, though. He never does. "Just-" The man lifts a hand, vaguely. "Don't get too attached to this kid if you're going to give her away."

"I ain't attached." Scout says. It would be convincing, if he didn't say it so quickly,with no belief in his eyes.

"Scout..."

Morosely, the kid closes his eyes and lets his head fall back in resignation as if in some kind of great pain. It's beyond the physical sort, and Sniper could guess, but he doesn't, because hearing things aloud often makes them seem worse than they really are. Scout throws one arm over his eyes and lets his other hand rest on his stomach. He probably wouldn't recognise a picture of himself before, thin and long and lovely. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"Half a' me jus' wants this to be over." He says, quietly. "I know it's dumb, but I think I'll miss her, too. Like, I shouldn't have to protect my own kid from myself."

Sniper laughs at him. He laughs and it's a thousand years too soon to hear it. "You can't seriously consider keeping the kid, though. It's much better if you-"

"No." Scout sits himself up. He thinks abut hitting Sniper again, because it would feel good, and he hates what he's hearing, but doesn't. Instead, he keeps on shaking his head. "No, you don't get a fuckin' say. Sure, maybe Danny will do a far shittier job of raising my dumbass kid than I would, but that doesn't mean I couldn't do it."

It's only after he's done speaking that Scout realises he's been shouting. What gives it away is not Sniper's raised brows, but the near-painful thump under his ribs that cause shim to lean forward and gasp, a little. He swallows it and tries to right himself, clambering out of the bed and towards the window.

"Jus'...stay in here, yeah?" Scout lets out another silver sigh and scoops up his bag.

"Where are you going?"

The kid pauses at the threshold, and turns around. "To shower." And then, with a tight smile. "An' no, you ain't welcome to join me."

Sniper respects that fine, and remains sitting on the bed. He waits for the kid as patiently as he can, but jetlagged and irritable, he isn't in much of a mood to wait around. The kid bites at any perceived provocation, and if he were to call Scout on it, he'd probably burst into tears, too. He watches the room's television for a little, but finds nothing absorbing to watch, so, makes an external call that's overdue.

Spy always lets it ring three ties. Always. And on the fourth ring, he picks up like always, and begins as he always does, when he knows it's Sniper calling.

"Be quick." he says, casually. "Is he with you?"

Spy definitely cares about he kid. Definitely. It''s in the way he asks, and in the way he looks, and even looks after. He's the only one who doesn't call scout 'son' or kid' or even 'junge', and there's a grace to that. A meaning deeper than respect. But that isn't what Sniper says.

"Kid's taking a shower. I'm in his hotel room."

He hears the other end shimmer in tremulous breath: a contented sigh. "Wonderful. How long do you suppose it will be before you are back?"

"I'll get us back before midnight."

Spy clicks his tongue. "Better do. How have you found him?"

"In a shitty mood." Sniper says. "He isn't too happy about this."

"That, I can understand."

The bastard disconnects, and leaves Sniper with the dull drone of the dead line, mocking him. He hangs the phone up, and pauses, hearing no running water, and seeing no steam rising from the gap in the door. The kid isn't trying to escape –no, this many floors up that would be an exercise in futility. But he's certainly not taking a shower.

Rising, he raps the back of his hand against the wood. "Uh, kid?" Without a response, he puts a hand around the door and grasps it, before swallowing, and pushing it open. He's seen Scout naked plenty of times, not just for sex, but after showers and other, less intimate contexts. It's nothing to be shy about, usually.

Yet, there is something obscene about seeing the kid curled over the sink in nothing but his underwear, testing his face in his hands, clasped tightly together like a forced prayer. It does him no good to see Scout like hat. The kid could be mumbling a prayer, or something else entirely, it doesn't matter. When Scout sniffs, and looks up, he catches Sniper in the bathroom mirror and straightens, swallowing.

"Get out." He says, in a pinched, pathetic little protest. "I told you –I said, you ain't supposed to come in here."

He has never found the boy like this. Jagged white marks curl around his lower back and hips, like the scratches from a claw. There are marks on Scout's thighs, little train-tracks that have all since healed over, but aren't noticeable unless you know where to look, or why to look. Bluish veins split the strident red skin of the kid's ankles. Memories at rest on his skin.

"We should go." Scout mumbles, after a while still leaning heavy on the sink like he's scared he'll fall. "I'll get my stuff."

Sniper hasn't moved since entering the room. His joints are locked, shocked, frozen into position, tied to Scout like an Atlantic cable. He nods, stiffly. "You don't want to stay, and visit a few places?"

As If mortally wounded, Scout lurches forward and turns. Sniper only gets the right side of his face when he speaks. "No." The kid grinds out. "I don't want to stay. I don't want to stay at all."

Finally managing movement, Sniper eases himself forward, and lays an easy hand on the kid's shoulder, trying to calm him. The warm, soft skin surprises him. "Hey," He says, quietly. "Hey, we don't have to-"

"There's no we, alright?!" Scout snaps. "No us. I don't want to stay here, or with you, or-..." Breathless with indignation, Scout struggles to continue, but keeps at it. "Bein' wit' you is suicide." The kid chokes. "It is. Or somethin' so like it, I can't tell the difference."

He folds like a cheap house of cards, fumbling backwards from the basin. Sniper catches him, a second from being too late, and lets the kid be in his arms, sick with crying and desperate with misery. It doesn't do to see a man cry. It doesn't do, and nobody is shouting at him, but Scout is crying again like he always does. See, Sniper knows him.

"What do you need?" He murmurs to the kid, swallowing. "What do you want from me?"

Still broken with bitterness and sick of hot salty tears like the prison of some ghastly vatican, Scout swallows. "End this." The kid blubbers. "Promise me that you'll end this."

What can he say? He cannot speak, tongue caught in some vicious spring-trap, with words dying before they can be heard. He cannot feel anything, hard as stone to his own reflection, colder than Scout and finds himself some kind of Medusa, spitting at the kid;'s wishes. He never says, never manages to say anything, until Scout is in the window seat, and still crying uselessly, hiding his face like a wrong, hushed up.

And like suicide, like Medusa, he takes the kid's chin in his hand.

Look at me now.


	22. XXII

Even if you don't have somewhere to go, leaving always feels so good.

It's addicting, that's the trouble, and even as they're landing –just landing, he feels relieved to have left Boston. The next matter is a shower. He wants to wash the smell of Fenway out of his hair, and scrub the snow out of his socks, and to sleep. Next to him, as the landing gear shakes the plane, Sniper is already snoozing, drowsed, his eyes hidden by the shade of his hat.

When they've stopped moving, and passengers are beginning to get up, Scout pokes the man's shoulder nervously.

"Look sharp, man." He says, quietly, and waits for more people to pass before attempting to get up. Sniper has always been a pretty light sleeper, and he's good at getting up quickly, too. In a second, the man has his bag slung over his shoulder, and is ready to file out behind Scout.

Anxious to get the welcome back over with, Scout gets up a little too quickly, and just like in the phonebox, and even after , when he was making that long-distance call, this pain comes stabbing deep into his guts and has Scout spluttering, collapsing forward, and having to cling to a seat for support.

A facet of some strange attachment, Sniper comes for him instinctively. "You've come far, kid, don't do this now."

After a moment without any oxygen, Scout straightens –slowly, damn slowly, breathing in concentrated amounts, before holding up a palm. "M'okay." He says, quietly. "Let's get back to the others, yeah?"

It seems that Scout has been found in a rare moment of pragmatism. It's not something that's seen very often, but has some kind of hold on Sniper. He gives the boy a rare, genuine smile, and waits for him to start moving again.

The aisle is narrow and Scout is tired: Sniper takes his bag wordlessly, and, just as wordlessly, the kid thanks him.

They take a taxi from the airport. Up dusty, half-known roads, they ride in silence. Sniper remains alert, sitting up, watching the landscape flicker by like distant firelight yet somehow keenly aware. Scout leans back, eyes shut, breathing smooth, arms curled over his stomach like a defence from the rest of the world.

The silence between them is a product of fatigue, most of all, but it can't last forever, and Sniper leans in to the kid with a gentle voice. "What you said before-"

Scout makes a face. "I say alotta things, for Chrissake."

It doesn't phase Sniper. Not when he has to ask. "You said that being with me...that it's like suicide. Is that...s'that true?"

For a very long time, Scout doesn't answer. Eventually, he lifts a hand from his stomach and covers his eyes, as if he can't stand to stare the dizzy truth in the face. More than once, he opens his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut, as if his response is in reach over and over again, like a prize changing hands.

"Last time I told you anythin', I felt like dyin'. I really did. I felt like getting' shot." Scout pauses in his words, and lets his hand fall from his eyes, finally mustering the strength. He still looks tired, and maybe it's the light, but he looks so very beautiful: a good amount of colour in his cheeks, handsome features and thanatos spewing like a profanity from his pretty lips. "Maybe I started it, or whatever. Maybe I did lead you on, but you had your finger on the trigger."

As if waiting for his turn to speak, and not at all really listening, Sniper speaks right away. "You didn't really love me, though, did you?"

The cab pulls up slowly to the nearest thing to RED base –some kind of lousy diner that's only a stretch up the road. Scout is wearing this contemptuous little smirk that he only ever uses occasionally, and considers the question. "Ask me again tomorrow." The kid laughs.

Before Sniper can object, the driver is swivelling in his seat, after the fare.

Courteous, Sniper pays, and when he turns around Scout is already a little ways ahead of him, walking slowly, leaned back for his own comfort. It doesn't take twenty seconds to catch him. The kid doesn't turn his shoulders, though, or his pace. He lets Sniper catch him, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, continuing to base. It isn't cold. Not like Chicago, or Boston. In fact, it could be a different time of year.

"Good to be back?"

Scout raises a single eyebrow, and tries this half-smile. He looks so sure, and yet, he says. "I think so."

Well, it's the happiest he's seen Scout in months. But this is the easy part.

Scout is so sure he's in for a mighty fall. He's sure that he won't be granted the grace of hitting the bottom, and will continue tumbling downwards for the rest of his life. He readies himself for them, all of them, putting on his war paint, and galvanising his armour. They come in through the locker room, and once the door behind the Sniper opens, he knows it's going to start.

The noise shakes the whole base, and right away, Scout sits. He doesn't want to be lectured to, but the prospect of them all seeing him, and missing him –the prospect of meaning something...it excites him in the way that christmas hasn't since he was very young. To have them be glad for his return, instead of sore over his departure, makes much more sense.

The first down is Medic.

For the oldest member of the team, he does the most running around, and he appears in the door pale and starved with worry, spectacles askew, eyes all bright in anticipation. The moment he sees Scout, this enormous smile lights the room up, and it's Scout's delight to catch fire from one man to the next. The room's previous tension is slackened to laughter, and Scout feels the man's embrace before he notices it.

Medic is incomprehensible. He just keeps laughing, and when he's done hugging Scout, hard and tight and sincerely, he grabs the kid's shoulders and looks at him squarely. It's almost frightening how clearly you can see his heart, and how terribly and truly he must love Scout.

Scout tries to shrug it off. He's still nervous. "I'm okay, y'know." Stammering, he tries a smile, but it wavers. He tries to look medic in the eyes, but it's tricky. Other voices at the threshold are a welcome distraction.

"Well, if it ain't the prodigal son." Cool, or at least, by comparison to Medic, Engineer is the second to actually come in,giving Scout a nod that he probably doesn't deserve. Maybe they were worried, before. Lost their minds with anxiety, couldn't think straight, couldn't ad anything but wait. Now, everything seems so much calmer. "Enjoy your vacation?"

"Y'know me," Scout shrugs. "Love to Christmas shop an' all."

They have a good laugh at that. Scout does, too, a little exhalation of amusement, but gets very nervous again to see Medic. The older man backs away a little and gives Scout his space. He's smiling, though, this open gaze that wavers not for a second. He can't look for long, though –they are at the door pretty quickly, too. He can make out Spy's eyes, glistening like gold with relief, and then the man is gone.

Like a rumour, like a renegade, they have spoken more about Scout than to him. He wouldn't deign to believe, for even a minute, that he was missed, or that they were worried. And yet, for once, he gets to be proven wrong.

They congregate in the Rec room.

Soldier doesn't surprise him too much. They always work pretty closely on the field, but it's something new to be clapped on the back and told not to go AWOL again: in this endearing way that suggests concern, even if they guy wouldn't never, ever admit it.

As for Pyro –well, Scout has never claimed to understand him at all, but is still surprised to hear this muffled declarative, and then some nodding. You never saw anybody nod as much as Pyro in your entire life, perhaps because it's difficult to figure out what he says, or because, as some suspect, he's a delusional mercenary who doesn't know his ass from his elbow. Still, Scout is grateful to be missed, and nods back, for the hell of it.

Of course, Demo barks at him in scottish, and is always either incredibly obscene or incredibly endearing, depending on what Scout chooses to believe, and Heavy damn near breaks his spine in a hug, though, that could be from the previous ache. Scout is too caught up in the moment, of being missed, of being part of something, that he barely notices somebody is missing.

Apprehensive, he turns to his left and tugs on whoever's sleeve he can find. "Where's Spy?"

Over the sound of the rest of them, Scout struggles to hear anything, but they fall silent so fast at a single whisper, tearing through them like a stone skimming across water and playing with it. The joy and chaos freezes completely in it's stead with a single, cleared throat. At the door, Miss Pauling stands a good foot shorter than most of them, but the way she stands, and the way she is looking, resolute, ready to do business, and if necessary, battle, it brings no arguments from the team.

"Mister Weiss." She says, plainly.

Scout struggles to swallow. He struggles to stand. He's had such a welcome. For the first time in his entire career at RED, he feels worthy and wanted. It has come at such a high cost and has been centuries in coming, but it's here, and the moment is so fragile, so at the mercy of a single woman's prejudices that Scout wonders how much he is really worth.

Staggering to the front of the group, he wrings his hands and uses all of his might to look her in the eyes. "Miss P." He says, with great difficulty. "I hope-"

It's astounding how little of his game she'll play. With great intensity, she halts everything he has to say, freezes every idea he has ever had, and interrupts so gracefully that the conversation might as well be an orchestrated duet.

"Sign for your absence. I expect to see you tomorrow morning."

She turns. She goes. Scout thinks he's going to faint.

Struck with panic, he wheezes and goes very limp against the nearest shoulder. It happens to be Engineer's, and despite his height, he manages to hold Scout up.

"Who there, son." He says, softly. "You want to rest, maybe? You've had a long journey."

In his head, he's trying to understand why Spy isn't here to see him, or what Miss Pauling means. If she expects to see him, then he doesn't think she's fired him. Miss Pauling would have let them all know that much. And when he comes to this conclusion, Scout starts to feel very warm inside. Deeply comforted, and even sleepy, so he nods to the suggestion of sleep and stands himself up.

"Mm," He concurs, beginning to walk out of the room. Then, turning, he asks, "What day is it?" Because, despite the saturated, commercial christmas assaulting Scout in Boston, there isn't a hint of it in base. No tinsel, no wrapping paper. Not even an overly-cheery carol.

"Friday. The sixth." Somebody supplies.

Every year, without fail, the team requisition a tree and put it up on December 5th. Every year Scout has been there, and way before that, the tradition extends back. It's a joint effort to balance as much onto the tree as possible –beads, tinsel, baubles, angels, stars, reindeer. However irrelevant it seems, it goes onto the tree, and they play terrible music and drink too much. But it's a celebration, and usually, the last one with all of the team together before they fly out for home.

"Don't you have a tree this year?" Scout asks. It makes him terribly sad to think it.

"No, we have a tree." Medic's voice comes all soft and easy. He smiles at Scout again, but Scout can't smile back because he doesn't want to be the bandage for somebody else's wound, or their bottle of bottom-drawer single malt. "We wanted to put it up when everybody was here."

Imagine that. Jesus –picture it. Scout isn't ready for that just yet, and he finds himself winded with a grin. It's been a long time since he's been a part of 'everybody', and he's missed it. At a complete loss, he struggles to find any method of conveying his gratitude.

"Y'didn't have to do that." He says, quietly. They really didn't.

Scout gets his rest, clambering up the stairs very slowly, and turning at his own door. For the first time, he wants to sleep alone tonight. Seeing Medic's smile in the same room as Sniper's distance, cool affections is so conflicting. Individually, there is no trust, and no love on Scout's part. They are all, together, a series of interactions in the great chain. They move the great chain, and the great chain moves them all.

And the most consistent part of the chain is something that surprises Scout, when he really thinks about it. He knocks on Spy's door and waits out in the hall, bitter with chill, still waiting on his fall that never comes. Because, after a while, the door cracks open and Spy looks hard at him for a minute, in a very calm fixture of alarm.

"You might have died." Is all he says.

"I might still." Scout shrugs, and leans against the door. "An' next time, you might not send Sniper, for Chrissake-"

Spy is so usually aloof and distant, and he usually doesn't care in any way that you can see, or feel. So, to have him grab scout by the collar and pull him forward, with this raw force that is never ever displayed, let alone seen, scared Scout. He expects a disorientating blow that never comes, but instead is pulled into Spy's space. The man's eyes are neon and alert with some kind of electricity.

"You-" He says, staggering for the words. Jesus Christ, he sounds so wounded and angry. Scout never knew he was cared about like this. It's a little –well, it's a little dizzying, to be quite honest. Out of breath, and out of energy, Scout slumps, and swallows.

"I didn't mean to scare anybody." He says, quietly. "I jus' wanted-"

When expecting a kiss, Scout is shaken hard by the shoulders, and Spy's face only grows darker and darker with anger. Maybe he is going to get socked, after all. And maybe he deserves it.

"What is it you want? What more could you possibly 'ave?!"

Scout tenses up and freezes. The breath he's swallowing catches and there isn't anything he can do. Locked into place, he shakes his head wordlessly.

"I want-..." He's never said it aloud before. Never really thought about it, but in the here and now, it comes out as cleanly as blood from an exit wound. "I wanted to be alone for a while."

Pride is as funny a thing as desire. When Scout finally gets his rest, alone, in a bed he has rarely used, he feels less alone than the many times his body has been next to another's. What does that make him?

All of them are so much simpler. Good men, all of them, god-fearing, tax-paying, honest people. Sniper is a good man: loves his mother, but he's a weak man , too, for not even missing Scout. He's a weak man for breaking the kid's heart.

And now, Scout is free-falling.  
  
-

He wishes they would say what they mean.

When Medic says 'you are welcome to join me in Germany', what he's really saying isn't that there is space. He's saying they will find space. It isn't an invitation, so much as plea. Because Medic would rip open the fabric of the universe to find Scout a spare bed, a spare plane ticket, a place besides him.

And when Spy says that Scout is welcome to spend the holiday with him, Scout knows he would end up spilling everything to Spy –all of his most embarrassing and worthless thoughts. Something in the man brings it out of him. They would enjoy themselves, too. Lounge in bed, pick lockers open and go through them, pretend to be 'just friends'. That is neither an invitation or an eviction notice. It simply is what it is.

Sniper says he doesn't care.

He cares. He cares immensely. Every glance at Scout, or half-muttered word confuses him. What the hell is it supposed to mean? Sniper says he is done, but lingers around the boy, looks to love like violence. Without lifting a finger, he's holding Scout back from doing much of anything, let alone move on, and he wants to scream. If they don't love him, they should let him go.

Because that's what Scout wants. He does. It's too human for him to fully accept, but he knows it's the only thing missing. But, Jesus Christ, he would give his eyes to be loved. To be looked at. To be seen.

They keep saying, it won't be long, and everything will be like before. But Scout isn't nostalgic. He's critical.  
  
-

On his last evening, Sniper looks at the only photograph he has of home.

He picks the frame up from the stand and sighs to himself contentedly. The glass is still missing, a few jagged whispers lining the frame, but the sticky photograph paper exposed. With a nervous finger, he nudges it with the tip of his finger, stroking around the arid lands of the background, and around the white hairs that makeup his parents halos.

He doesn't like the man in the photograph. Or the man in the mirror, but that's something that the flight won't fix.

The evening is peaceful with quiet and brittle with cold. The rest of them are packing, likely, or preparing for a long stay at Teufort. Once, he remembers, he stayed a few days later, for Spy. Even together, he was so miserable with loneliness. He doesn't know how Spy can stand it. Or why Spy would actively choose this fate.

There was a seat besides him once, for Spy. A spare bed, a spare place, an invitation, just once. He appreciates the quiet for that. I helps him think about it, painlessly, honestly. But it doesn't last.

The cries are faint at first, and ignorable, but stopping short outside of the van door, out in the dust, he can hear screaming. The cries escalate to fast, but the pained kind. Sniper has bled out a number of times before, and when he did, he screamed like that. Disturbed, he stands up, and lingers by the door.

The sobs are dry and devoid of all oxygen. Sharp hisses splinter the cries into jagged little moans, so horrifying and pathetic that even in consciousness they are haunting. They don't seem to draw any closer, and Sniper is scared for what is out there.

Slowly, very slowly, as if underwater, he takes a few tiny steps forward and, with a gun in one arm, swings open the door.

Scout is on his knees, blue-lipped and torn right open in agony. His breathing is violent and he is past the point of trembling. Hyperventilating, he reaches out a hand for Sniper, as if to be saved from the rapturous pain, and it's only then Sniper notices the kid's hands, one wrapped tight around his stomach, and the one outstretched glistening with blood.

"Don't do this now, kid." He says, but he knows it's already too late.

-

When he's emptying one of his drawers, Medic finds one of Scout's old shirts between his own. Slipped in like a sunken treasure and drawer-warm, he pulls it out and brings it to him. Sure enough, the boy's scent still lingers on the fabric, passionate and strident as love alive.

He manages to pull a single hair from the shirt, not one of his, and holds it up to the light for confirmation. It is not lovely, or beautiful. It is radiant as the sun, and Medic can't help but think, it is so gorgeous, it could kill a man.

Yes, it could kill a man. Lucky he's just a fool, though.

It gives him pause, for just a moment, and in the peace of his final hours at Teufort for this half of winter, it has him smiling. The shirt seems so small and insignificant, and so did every time Scout stayed the night, or the morning. To Medic, they are the world, and to the world, they are wrong. Knee-deep in nostalgia, he has hardly a moment's recovery before the cry.

"Medic!"

Medic drops everything. He lets it all go, knowing that there is a higher cause, higher than loneliness and more noble than love. A Medic can never claim to be out-of-hours, after all, and he knows the urgency in that tone. It is as if he can smell the blood already.  
Down the close, darkening corridor and up the stairs, he sprints, climbing the steps two-at-any-time, and clambering towards the cry. He reminds himself of duty, of his job, and then the present truth that he would only ever sprint for Scout. Graciously, contritely, he finds the scene before him breathlessly, only to be robbed of whatever air is keeping his lungs for collapsing.

"Oh, Scout-..." Halting, for breath's sake, he moves slowly towards the boy, who is practically limp, supported only by his arm slung and held over Sniper's shoulder. For all of the man's clear and painful distress, his words are surprisingly distant.

"Take him," Sniper says, quietly, "I have a plane to catch."

The boy lets out an unintelligible mutter and whimpers, burying his face into Sniper's shoulder. The fabric there is already damp. Clinging uselessly to him, Scout seems unwilling to let go, fists curling angrily on the red shirt. He shakes his head furiously. When he might go to speak, the words are turned to the ashes of a sob.

Despite still being useless and paralytic with pain, Scout does try to fight when he gets practically passed over, for lack of a better phrase, to Medic, who has t tear the boy's political fists from the fabric of another man's shirt. "Come along," He says, quietly. "Getting upset is only going to make it worse."

Contemptuously, Scout still tries to pull away, pull forward and get back, back to Sniper. That should hurt, but Medic won't let it, and he tells himself that Scout is probably delirious with panic and pain and fear. He holds out a gracious hand, unconditional, unwavering, and tries a small smile, as if to be comforting. "I know that you must-"

Scout's sneer is so vicious and personal. The boy combusts. "What do you know!?" He nearly collapses right then and there, his feet trying to grip at the floor uselessly but finding no purchase. "Oh, God-"

"That's enough, kid." Sniper tries to shake the boy off of his arm contemptuously, trying to wipe off the traces of tears and blood, of humanity. But Scout clings to him like guilt, like the blood on a knife, or a scent of a lover on one's fingertips. The boy clings and won't let go, immovable as a tumour, wreckless with tears and misery.

"Please," He gets out, uselessly. "You can't go. You can't just-" The words get cut short by another whimper pulled tight. "You can't just leave!"

Sniper never does answer him, but shoves the boy off hard and leaves him on the ground, all curled up and convulsing. "I said that's enough!"

Medic helps Scout to stand, gently, easing him up and taking most of his weight, because it's clear Scout is in no position to help himself. Every few seconds his breathing relaxes, only to become disrupted and even more laboured once again. For a second, it looks as if the boy has given up, watching Sniper go with wide eyes.

But he never was one to go out gracefully.

"Stay-..." Scout begs him.

"Merry Christmas, Doc." Sniper makes no move to turn around, as if he hasn't heard the pathetic plea from the boy, and it makes Scout's face ugly with bitterness.

"You-" The boy growls. "You bastard!" The boy stifles a sob. "Aren't you done punishin' me?"

That gets the man's attention. He stops short of the stairs and turns, very slowly, as if fighting with himself. But Scout wins. Scout always seems to. And now, he has all of Sniper's time and attention, even just for the moment, and even the man starts screaming at him, he will be all that they can think about.

Sniper lets out a mirthless little laugh. "Punishing  _you_?" He says. "What was it you said? About me, and about suicide?"

"Because it's true!" Scout's face is very white. He looks to be haunted and haunting, hanging off of Medic like a closing statement. "Jesus Christ, I –fuck, all I did was tell you I loved you, an' you made me feel like dyin'." The boy shivers. He rarely sounds so earnest. "I'm  _scared. Please_...don't leave me now."

"I'm not going to stay if-"

"Please." Scout hisses. "For Christ's sake,  _stay_."

The boy is breathing incredibly hard. His skin is burning with intensity, and like a sulphuric stars, he glows fiercely. Medic lets his love stay silent, lets the boy use him again, lean on him heaving but call out to somebody else. Sniper is completely still for a few seconds, as if frozen in disbelief, before tipping his hat slightly and swallowing.

"Merry Christmas, Scout." He says, beginning to walk away. The kid starts to cry all over again, fighting the arms he's in, as if willing to tear off of his own spine just to be closer to the other man. Just to get away from Medic. He bucks against him and kicks until he's still lucid with tears, and all out of breath.

"I thought I had time, Doc, I thought-..." Scout clings to him, now, his voice just above a whisper. "Oh, God!" He cries. "I cant do this. I can't –I need-"

Medic heaves the boy to standing and holds him there. "Listen to me." he says, quietly. But when Scout shakes his head, and continues to sob, he shakes him. "Listen to me, liebe. You must calm down. Alright? Keep yourself calm, and you will feel better."

Scout's breathing is suffering. It's gotten to the stage where tears have disrupted him so much that he takes a breath in with three or so jagged inhalations every time. The poor thing can't even speak. But Medic keeps him there until Scout is a little more reasonable, until he is quieter, still leaning hard on Medic, and still crying, a little. But now, from his pain, rather than from his loss.

"Can you walk?"

Scout sniffs. "A-a little..."

"There's no need to be afraid." Medic promises him. "You won't feel any pain, I promise. Labour doesn't usually-"

"No," Scout says, breathlessly. "I ain't ready yet. I was gonna –I-I can't have this kid yet." He damn nearly collapses again. "Not yet-..." He keeps saying it, but nobody listens. It's inevitable, they say, what has he to fight against?

Scout doesn't remember everything Medic says. But he remembers how kind and patient the man's tone was, even when Scout started to cry again, damn himself, even when he fought against the first injection, and then the next. Even when he tried to escape, drowsy, dozed on Novocaine and delirium.

At some point, the lights became dimmer, and later, Spy was at his hand, stroking across his brow and murmuring to him. And Scout reached back to the man's face, blinking, his memory of the salient confused, touching as if to speak. Scout didn't call him. Didn't call him at all, but Spy steamed to him over the ocean.

Paralysing the kicking lovers. Scout can't seem to swallow any of it, the chlorine light, squeezing the breath from trident blood cells and leaving him dead –moneyless. Overexposed, like an X-Ray, he wonders who Spy thinks he is, and takes no bite of the man's body, or at least, no bite further.

But at some point, he manages whole words, and strings them together, with Spy in his eyes, a thousand different versions, a kaleidoscope. "Please, stay."

And Spy looks so confused. "It will be morning soon. "He says. That isn't what scout had asked of him. He never cares for the sun. It rises to spit him, so he forces more words out.

"No." Scout says, when the man begins to rise, and withdraw, leaving him to this ghastly vatican just like Sniper. "No." he calls out again. "Don't go to him."

But Spy, split like a mirror, is shaking his thousand heads, a hydra, spitting, hissing at his wishes. "It's not september anymore, Scout, we must get older..."

Scout reaches out a hand, an arm, would throw himself into a fire not to be left in the consuming darkness of this morgue, where the only lights are green as eunuchs. "Could you love me?"

Spy laughs at him. He laughs, and says again. "We must get older."

And when Scout reaches out to touch him, at last, he shatters into a thousand beautiful pieces, shimmering, vicious and sharp, like bullet-tears that pierces his skin, Scout remembers screaming. "You deserve eachother!" as the darkness surrounds him, has him surrendering, and then -and then...

There is no darkness. No shattered kaleidoscope. There is a soft hand on his brow, cool against his feverish skin. There is a vague hint at morning coming through the high windows, and the light bedside him is soft and milky. It casts favourable shadows onto ageing skin.

"You-"

His fears are silenced, made invisible with a single smile. "Shh." Medic quiets him. "You were just dreaming."

Very slowly, Scout goes to sit up, surprised by the task's difficulty. Warily, he frowns at his own skin, and places a hand over his stomach. "I thought that it was-"

"We all did, schatzchen." He says, gracious as a ghost. Leaning over him, Medic picks up his cup and drinks from it. "You were on-and-off the entire night. I don't think you were quite ready to deliver, though." The man leans back in the chair he's sat in and smiles tiredly, his eyes slipping closed a little. Medic looks as if he has just suffered through the worst of a terrible storm, or sat awake in the darkness of a blitzkrieg for years, too terrified to sleep.

"That wasn't it?" He murmurs, in complete disbelief. Shifting, still sore, and pained and tight with dried tears, Scout tries to make sense of the words he's been given. "You're sayin', that weren't the worst of it?"

Medic struggles to look at him for a second. "The worst, I'm afraid, is yet to come."

It doesn't comfort Scout a bit. Not even an inch. The boy makes to sit up like he wants to escape, with a fugitive look of fear that turns dark with desperation. Stumbling over himself, and his foolish wishes, scout sits on the edge of the mattress and shakes his head furiously, like a child all over again.

"Has he called?" No names are used. Nor are they needed. The injury is avoided, at least for Scout, who looks up morosely, and watches Medic shake his head. "A-and Spy?"

He gets a slight, cautious nod. "He came for you not long after I'd given you novocaine. You were running quite a fever."

Scout sags a little, comforted only by an inch, half-remembering shiny hallucinations of September, some other curious form of life. He remembers Spy telling him that they must get older, but Scout is older. He feels a thousand years, now. Placing a skinny hand over his stomach, Scout pauses, and then realises.

"Did you stay?" He asked, voice fragile, and wrecked with hours of pleas to a god he doesn't believe in. "The whole night?"

Medic takes off his spectacles very slowly, and nods. "It's my job, spatz."

Scout stands up, very shakily. It's wrong to have Sniper on his mind, the man so full of venom, and unrecognisable to him now, and yet, he is. Australia could be a million miles away, a million years away. Is it Scout's fault. Did he put too many states between them? Did he put his own heart in the freezer, next to the thought of Medic?

Spinning around the face Medic, Scout lifts a hand. "Everybody's flown out." He says, breathless with urgency. "Why are you still here?"

Medic shakes his head. "It would have been awfully irresponsible to fly out to Stuttgart with you in labour." He says, softly.

"You can still go now." Scout presses him. It does no good.

"It isn't important." Medic yawns, mewling a little. This blasé, casual resignation, this willingness to cut out his own heart to give Scout a means of living, it's too much. Scout knows he doesn't deserve it. He knows that it isn't fair. After all, when he found himself unable to breathe, shaking, bleeding, terrified it was all over, it was not to Medic bones he went to crawl to. After all this time, he still hasn't learned.

"Yes," Scout bites down his instinct to get upset, and start shouting. "Of course it's fuckin' important. Get on the next flight out of here." And when Medic remains motionless, staring at him, he throws up his hands. "Go!"

For the exclamation, he gets a hard kick that has him curling in a little, in surprise rather than pain. Right away, Medic stands, and puts a hand on Scout's shoulder.

How the hell is Scout supposed to look at him? He is consuming the man's future, and his bleak present, slowly snipping at every single string keeping Medic afloat. He wants to ask, but all of his questions die before they can be vocalised. Why him? How can Medic stand to hold him when he calls for another man? What makes Medic love him despite the reservations?

All he can get out is a meek little. "I never asked you to do this." He says. "I didn't."

Medic doesn't keep him there. Doesn't make him do anything he doesn't want to, but simply withdraws, gracious as the ghost of you, with a smile.

And Scout doesn't blame Sniper for being long gone. After all, leaving feels so good, even if you have nowhere to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why sleep when u could write ha ha


	23. XXIII

The Rec room is a mess of streamers and bottles. A graveyard, burying the night before.

Scout brings himself to sit in the empty room, on the edge of the couch, picking up an empty brown bottle, before dropping it onto the carpet. That stiff smell of yeast from overexposed beer reeks seedily, and the whole place just seems sad. He knows, from experience, how vibrant and charged and electric the night before would have been. And how pathetic it all seems now.

Scout doesn't mind the aftermath. He's used to it. Being the aperitif, the after-dinner mint, refreshing and cold, but just an afterthought. But what scout wants is to be somebody's party, and not their mess. Their vintage reserve and not their prossecco.

He smiles, because maybe that's how Medic sees him. Like a party somebody threw him once. When they kiss, does he taste like birthday cake? Is his voice like parade music, and are his eyes new-years bright? Jesus, Scout has never known himself to be romantic, capital 'r' or otherwise, but he has never really known himself until now.

No calls come through form Australia, but Scout doesn't mourn the loss.

Engineer was right, he is a smart kind of boy. He knows how to win people over, but it's only now he's learned that some people are better off lost. Maybe Scout loved him once. But he can learn how to hate a man just as easily.

Before all of this mess, he would have been lost, shipwrecked, to have Sniper up and leave. The bleeding stops after a while. The bruises fall off eventually. He knows that. So why does he still feel like drowning?

In fact, that's how Spy finds him. Not in a morbid way, mind, but in some kind of suspended grace, his too-long hair a divine wraith around his face under the water. It's rare anybody takes a bath at base, mostly because there's only one bath, and it's pitifully small for most of the men, but also because Administration only give license for it once a year. And most people pick birthdays.

But Scout needs to match the watery feeling in his head, or that washing-machine turbulence in his stomach and the suspicion that he is twenty-thousand leagues under the boy he was.

There he lays, eyes wide open, his vision beneath the water a wobbling picture of tile, still and sentient, when a frenzied mountain shadows over the water and a lean pair of hands grasp at his shoulders. Expecting somebody else, Scout splutters at the sudden relief of oxygen and and the dryness stinging his eyes, leaning back against the wall of the tub to right himself.

In the middle of the water, a dying stub of a cigarette is swirling, disrupted by the water's eddies. Above it, the owner's mouth is pretty with shock.

"Are you looking to kill yourself?" In a calm voice, or some semblance of one, Spy looks at him. Scout's eyes must be red, from fatigue or the sting of the air, and he rubs them, settling back to lay in the water. It is warm enough, but he finds himself cold, body shrouded in a handsome shadow apart from the pale of his toes and the mass of his stomach, untouched by the water.

Lazily, he kicks a toe and lets a few flecks of water catch on Spy, who for once, cares not. "I'm far too fond a'myself for that." He smiles, languidly. "Why, are you?"

Eyes narrowing in the resentment of being caught caring, Spy sneers a little at him, half in jest. "Mais, bien-sur." The man grumbles, fishing into his top pocket and pulling out his cigarette tin. He places one between his lips and another between Scout's, and lights them both in that neat, one-handed flourish that Scout will never be able to emulate. "I'd 'oped to find you in a better way than last night."

Scout swallows something bitter in his mouth. He tries to remember the distorted, shiny memories of Spy, but none of them read correctly. Like a book read in reverse, and Scout understands less as the pages turn. He rubs his eyes again. "Thank-you." He says, "You didn't have to come."

Spy snorts, a little. "I know. I thought it would be-..." And it's the first time Spy looks at a genuine loss for something to say. He takes a clean drag on the cigarette and glances at Scout almost nervously. "I thought it would be of some condolence to you. You were not too pleased at the time."

Confused, Scout's frown flickers like a flame, and then fails. He shakes his head. "Novocain's a hell of a thing." And then, softer. "Man, I really thought that was it."

Spy waves a vague hand. "'ow eager you must be to get back to the past, cher."

When they catch eyes, then, they are miles apart, and not millimeters, as before. Is that what Spy really thinks? That Scout is more anxious to get back to his own memory than he is anxious about giving away his only real investment? That's the trouble. Spy remembers him as he was, and not as he is. The man has no idea who he is speaking to. He has no idea that Scout's greatest desire is not to have to say goodbye to his daughter seconds after her first light, because he knows, even now, it might kill him.

But instead of saying that, or even hinting towards it, no, Scout just shrugs. "I guess." He says, complacently. "Well, parts of it, anyway."

That has Spy quirking an eyebrow, which, one, Spy explained was it's own verb in his native tongue. Tiquer. "Which parts do you 'ave in mind?"

Scout sinks deeper into thought and into the tub. A year ago he was invincible, and now –now, his insides are copper and he'd murder to get them to shine like gold just once more. He leans his arm over the tub and lets most of the cigarette burn itself up. Honestly, he speaks. "I miss the sex, to be honest."

Spy has a good laugh at that, and Scout does, too. But he's quicker to recover.

"I ain't jokin', y'know." He says, half-smiling. "Jesus, I can't even tell you how frustrated I am about it." He toes some more water, not looking away from Spy. They're connected, like that, on the same kind of plane, and the chain between them, the Atlantic cable keeps it;self, somehow, in a miraculous state of repair.

"And that is the only loss you mourn?" Spy smirks at him. Sinking a little deeper, flicking more water onto his guest.

"Well, it ain't the only thing." Yawning, he pauses. "But, I mean, it's up there. If I didn't look like something outta 'the twilight zone' naked, I think I'd have a few takers." It's sad to hear him say it, but Spy doesn't have the kind of decency in him needed to say otherwise. He just keeps on smoking, looking tired, but beautiful, too.

No, beautiful is the wrong word. Especially when Spy's face goes all charming with deviousness, and he half-smiles even more. "What was it like?"

"Fuckin'  _gorgeous._ " Leaning his head back, Scout lets his eyes shut a little. Before had been so much simpler. Not about loneliness or love or loyalties. Scout had them all bending over backwards for him. He laughs. "Think about it. Havin' all those guys, wantin' you, and pleasin' you."

"Really?" Spy looks at him, plainly.

"Yeah. You an' Medic an'-"

"And what was  _that_ like?"

Scout looks at him, just as devious, but worse, seriously honestly. " _Hot._ " He smiles, full of pride and glory over winning something intangible. What's worse is how hooked Spy is. He's leaned forward, and for love nor money, he can't seem to shut his mouth even a little.

"We don't 'ave to talk about it." the man says, quietly. Scout looks down at the water surrounding him, and shrugs.

"I don't mind it." he says, innocently. It seems to take an eternity for Spy to speak, stubbing out his cigarette and looking up at Scout with these eyes as dark as diamonds in the jungle.

"May I ask you a question?"

Scout nods.

"'ow would it go?" The man is excited. He likes it. Jesus Christ. Scout loves every minute of it. "Was it –did 'e control you, or..."

Scout clicks his tongue, and nods. "Bent me over his desk, made me sit in his lap, an' do things? Sure."

Spy is halfway over the bath at this point, smirking but wanting, his eyes on Scout's again, the same shivering blue, held by that same Atlantic cable. "And what about Sniper?"

He only selects a few memories. The good ones. The best ones. It doesn't matter. Doesn't serve him to be dishonest. "Sniper'd –man, he was rough. Held me down, bit me. You should know." Sighing, Scout pauses on his memories. While he can't believe Sniper could both hold him down and make him scream, and then leave him here, alone, Scout also struggles to believe that not so long ago, he had them all at his own mercies.

Spy just lingers there, still relatively content. He kills the remains of his cigarette and lights another one. He doesn't offer Scout another. "What should I know?"

The water is getting colder, but it continues to sustain Scout. He likes the feeling of weightlessness. Misses it. Casually, he shrugs again. "Well, you were with him an' all. An' you're, y'know..."

"I am what?"

"Oh, you're-..." Scout rubs down his arm, as if he's about to say something terrible or awkward. Maybe it is. It could be taken a number of ways, but then again, everything he says is at the mercy of Spy's prejudices. "You're, y'know, like me."

Spy recoils, his face turning ugly with derisiveness and scorn. He finds it in him to laugh, bitterly, and the noise is sharper than the tug of a bullet from a gun-barrel. The man laughs, and shakes his head, maliciously. "Like you?" somehow, he manages to get it out, and then laughs some more. "I 'ope to  _God_  that you did not tell Sniper  _that_."

It's then that Scout thinks he was wrong. He flinches, a little, steeling his instinct to punch the guy, to hold him under the water, to fight back somehow, even though he knows it would serve no end. Because Spy isn't just laughing at some abstract comparison: Scout has given him an intimate glimpse, he has been honest and personally and it confirms every doubt, suspicion and jealousy –that everything inside of him really is worthless, and embarrassing.

Scout likes his choices, but he isn't sure if he likes himself. What he knows now, though, is that the fight isn't worth it. He swallows, with great difficulty. Anytime he has ever swallowed his pride before, it has clawed it's way back up his throat, and every time he thinks he has swallowed a man's memory, it still comes up in conversation, somehow.

Rising, shakily, he gives Spy his back and takes the towel on the floor. All without saying anything. He doesn't trust himself not to shout, or worse, to cry. He's so sick of the crying.

Recovered, slightly, Spy reaches a hand forward. Burt he isn't sorry enough. "Oh, Scout-"

Quietly, he wraps the towel around him, stiff with resentment, and shakes his head. "I'm done." he says.

He doesn't have stamina or license to be a dumb kid anymore. He doesn't have it in him. Scout knows he'll be happy again, and when this is over, there will be days, and maybe even weeks, he can forget. For now, he can't decide he suffering when the sun persists in rising.

He can only decide not to be a victim of fortune, or romance, or any man that could get their dirty, little hands on him.

-

The mail comes through at the end of the week.

He gets a few packages through, all of which tied in tacky red string instructing him 'do not open until Christmas'. But Scout isn't patient, and he'd rather get it over with in private.

Ma's letter just depresses him. He reads it, slowly, taking his time over every scrawled word, every time she left ugly black marks in sadness or just from interruption. And then, he reads it again, barely noticing when half an hour has passed him by, or that he's sort of crying. It's no longer a conscious action. Scout thinks it could be some kind of depression: because his circumstances have become so toxic in the past few months, he wonders if anybody could pull through unscathed.

Her present is a Carl Yastrzemski jersey, with the number eight and everything. Now, in his hands, it seems tiny, especially compared with the one has already has, which had been Robbie's. He'd taken in to sleep in, for the winter, originally. It had been nice and long, back then. He misses playing baseball. Jesus, he misses being young.

Danny has also sent a package. Scout feels resentful even before opening it, his fingers curling in defiance as he struggles with the knot; he never asked for Danny's charity. He doesn't want to be thanked for the next eighteen years, everytime he goes home. He doesn't want to be haunted by his way out. Really, all it does is nip the stitches of his healing wounds, and remind him that if he were brave, he would dig his heels in, and to hell with the rest of them. If he were better, he would be keeping his kid.

Scout hates Danny for it, but he hates himself, too.

Christmas is only in a few days. And nobody would care, so Scout opens it all up, hoping to find something of comfort, or use. Inside is this dark tweed scarf. A scarf? He thinks to himself that Danny must have a very strange sense of humour, sending him a scarf for a winter in New Mexico, but unravels it anyway, winding it around one hand, until something slips out of the middle. The scarf had been coiled around something.

Fumbling for it, Scout drops the scarf to lay at rest in his lap. Cautiously, he picks up the piece of material. It's some typical shade of very pale pink, and pretty soft. It's a fair size, and Scout figures he knows what it is. The only confusing part is the name embroidered into the middle of it, in ivory letters. For some reason he can't quite fathom, it reads 'elizabeth'.

He knows, right away, that he has to call home tonight. But not right away. No, Scout can wait a little, and he intends to. For a while he stays sitting on his bed, his hands still clasped around 'elizabeth's' blanket before laying back and falling asleep, above the covers.

He's having the strangest dream about a wedding on a hill somewhere, and he's so incredibly happy, so euphoric in a way that he'll only ever be able to remember. And there are pews on the grass and the pews are full of people, and when the woman walking slowly up the aisle stops in front of him, and lets him lift her veil, she turns to clouds in his hands. Suddenly, there are no people, there is nothing there but him, and it's so beautiful, he's so happy, and completely alone-...

On waking, his mouth is dry with salt, and there are no clouds in his grasp: just the sheets. He isn't left with his eyes burning with beauty, but instead pain, and he doesn't feel free or happy. He feels hungry and tired and lonely. The walls are not company, especially not these. They lean in to listen and remind him of every lover, the ghosts in the sheets cloud-like but heavier. And he can't stand it.

Out of hours, and patience, he lifts off of the bed and folds the jersey on his bed, in waiting for when he can wear it, next to the blanket with a stranger's name. He turns, and leaves the room, walls and ghosts and all.

He can see Medic's light will be on.  
  
-  
  
Back at home, music was never a private thing. Jeb brought this hi-fi phono when he turned fifteen or so, and it was so expensive at the time, but everybody used it. Everybody. Each one of Scout's brothers has at least three records for it, and whenever they hustled into the bathroom to get ready, or stayed in, it was playing.

In all of his time at Teufort, Scout has heard somebody else playing music aloud maybe three times. Maybe. A decision can never be reached. People are never happy. Not just about music, but especially, at base.

It really surprises him when he manages the walk down to Medic's office, in the dim light of base, to hear music. At first, his nose wrinkles, a physical response. He never liked jazz. It reminds him of cheap, tacky bars full of women with middle-class delusions and men with fake watches. On closer inspection, he finds to his surprise that a rather calm and collected Medic has a guest. In the seat across from him, Miss Pauling is smoking a cigarette, her ankles crossed. She might be laughing –it's difficult, but they're definitely speaking.

Scout lingers for a few seconds, having not been seen, and thinks about turning and going. He's halfway to a decision, for once, when he's seen, and Medic waves a hand to him.

"You're looking much more hale." He says, sounding friendly, and a bit more spirited than earlier. "Would you like to join us?" while Scout has become accustomed to it, Medic's accent shines through a stretch more. Perhaps he has had something to drink. That always enhances it.

Scout feels very small and unarmed, standing in the way like that. "I jus'-" He swallows. "I jus' wanted to use your telephone. I don't want to bother you none."

Miss Pauling turns her head, so that she's looking at him over her shoulder. It's the first time he's seen her with her hair down. She's a beautiful woman –she is, but she's terrifying, too. And Scout is tired of being scared.

"The telephone is free." Medic says, gesturing to the inside of his office. "And you are welcome to join us, you know."

He starts towards the phone, but stops at Medic's offer, the phono on the desk coming up to his midriff. The record, a Brubeck one, keeps on spinning, and he watches it for a few seconds. "I don't wanna intrude on you guys." He says, awkwardly, before deciding to risk a joke. "Besides, I don't really like jazz."

"Nonsense." Medic is really pushing it. His tie is all loose and his hair is soft, as it has been on the occasion Scout has found him at sunrise, in bed, eyes crusted shut with sleeping dust. "Nonsense, we have other records. I'm afraid I'm quite tired of them, but you are welcome to choose. I'd appreciate your company. No-" The man looks over at Miss Pauling, still smoking, her resolve not nearly as dour as usual. "We would appreciate your company."

Scout snorts at that. "Yeah, sure. Sure you would." He jams his fists into his pocket and looks at the ceiling. "I'll jus' be quick. I don't want to bother you."

Still every bit as sharp, she looks at him. "As you like it." She says, and leaves him to it. So he nods, and he closes the door behind him.

The office is very small, but it's everything a private office should be. Telephone, papers, filing cabinet. It all looks relevant. The chair is nice, too, so scout sits, settling is weight, and leaning his shoes on the desk before picking up the receiver. The number for his hometown is default to him –an old friend. He dials bereft of conscious thought.

It isn't too late here, so it shouldn't be an unreasonable hour back home. But it still takes many rings before the other end of the ling springs to life, inflating with the sound of another voice.

"Danny Weiss speakin', who's callin'?"

Scout remembers that his were one of the last families to get a telephone: a sleek black thing in a wooden case. Even to this day, because of Ma's insistence, all of the Weiss boys still answer the telephone like children. Scout still does it, sometimes, but since working at RED, he's tried to train it out of himself.

"It's Scout." he says, murmuring, sounding so unlike himself that Danny answers right away.

"What'd he do?"

It makes Scout laugh, and boy, he's missed laughing. "No, no, it's me talkin'. It's Scout."

For a second, the other line is thick with an inhalation, before Danny's voice returns, every bit as awful and endearing as Scout remembers it. "Awright." he says. He likes that word a lot. "Awright. What'd  _you_ do?"

"I didn't do nothin'." Scout answers him with a smile in his voice. It's the closest to home he can get right now. He misses home. He misses eating christmas dinner with seven brothers and their wives and his Ma, all crammed into a tiny room like sardines in darkness. For now, this will have to do. "Honest, I didn't. I'm jus' –I jus' wanted to call."

Danny is more like Jeb than he is like Scout. But he's still a little like Scout, and just laughs the boy's earnestness off. "Yeah, yeah, awright, you don't gotta sound so wounded." But, pretty quickly the conversation changes t a higher gear. "Me an' Denise. We, uh, we sent you a few things. You get 'em?"

Scout laughs to himself. That's his wife's name, after all. He's spoken to her a few times over the phone, but for all of his joy, he can never remember her name. But then he thinks about Danny's vinyl, and his copy of 'To Kill A Mockingbird', and then, worse, the pink blanket, and Scout starts to feel his nose prickling, and his eyes getting all strange and steamy.

He swallows it all. "Yeah." He says. "Yeah, I got 'em. You didn't have to do that, y'know."

"It weren't my idea." Danny continues. He sounds pretty energetic than usual. Less pessimistic in his tone, and Scout thinks he knows voices pretty well. "Denise figured it'd be sweet or somethin'. I didn't want to offend you or nothin', I know you can buy your own records and stuff."

"Nah, it's -" Scout sighs. "It's good of you. I used to love that song."

"An' don't we know it. You were obnoxious wit' singin' it all the time." The accusation is meant in jest, and while Scout understands and appreciates Danny's levity, the interpreted pressure to laugh makes him feel exhausted. "Still, I'm glad you liked it."

"O'course I do." Scout manages to make himself say. "It's sweet. The scarf's real nice, too." And then he remembers his question. The one that brought the need for this phonecall to light. "I got the blanket you sent, too, but I, uh -" He tried to check, in his mind, if there is some incredibly obvious detail he's forgetting, so as not to look like a fool. When it fails to be unearthed, he presses on. "I ain't sure who 'elizabeth' is."

For a second, Danny's quiet. At least he isn't laughing. Scout is relieved he hasn't forgotten some important name, and that Danny isn't laughing ta him for it. What he gets instead is much worse. "Yeah, about that." He begins. That is never a promising start, especially coming from a sibling. It's almost as bad as 'I just want to talk'. Lies, all of them. "We, uh, Denise and I, that is, we decided we was gonna call her Elizabeth. I didn't get the chance to tell you sooner."

Scout never even considered that possibility. To be honest, it's a possibility he doesn't much like. Maybe he isn't the most emotionally engaged guy in the world, but he does have some kind of fondness for the kid, and all of her little kicks. Jesus, he's already named her. He already has, and even now, Danny is taking her away, piece by piece, bit by bit, until he'll have nothing left. His eyes burn even more, now, because it's too soon. It's too soon to be saying goodbye.

Somehow, though, he chokes out whole words. Words like "Naw. Naw, she's already got a name. I already decided I was gonna name her after Ma."

Danny's quicker to respond to that. "Awright, kid, don't get upset." His brothers always call him kid. They know how much he resents it. Scout feels miserable already, worse, somehow. He feels this very cold resentment already affecting him, and no, maybe it isn't very fair, but Danny can't do that.

"Scout..." Danny sighs to him. "I dont' know what you want to hear. We got things personalised already, an-"

"You can return them." Scout says, coldly.

"An' Denise has her heart set on that goddamn name-"

"She won't mind-"

"Dammit, kid!" It isn't like Danny to shout. Not a bit. Usually, the guy is mellow as anything, usually, he's calm. It scares the conviction out of Scout, for what that's worth. His feet fall from the desk and he flinches like somebody has threatened to sock him. "This ain't a negotiation, awright? If it's gonna make Denise happy, then we're callin' the kid Elizabeth, whether you like it or not."

Scout swallows. He's harder to scare than that. "Lemme talk to her." He bargains. "C'mon, lemme chat to her. I'm sure she'd-"

"She wouldn't understand shit." Danny halts him so swiftly, it's almost graceless. It surprises Scout enough to shut up for a moment. "An' she ain't here. Said she had to 'get outta this place', y'know. Wouldn't shut up about me bein' home late. She was crazy, I'll tell ya."

It makes him very nervous, suddenly. Of course Scout isn't naive to believe in new romance in any way, or that love is anything but a cheap and dirty card to play, but hearing that Danny, of all people, is fighting, is unhappy...it spooks him. Makes him remember every temper flared and curse muttered to him by any of the men he's slept with. It's unfair t hold up Danny's marriage in any light, but he has to. It gives him hope that his kid will be well-adjusted, and balanced. It gives him hope that people really can stand eachother for a long time.

He speaks very quietly, after enough time has passed. "She's comin' back, ain't she?"

Danny sighs. "Yeah, yeah. 'Course she is. I think she's jus' nervous. That kid a' yours is gonna be here real soon, an' she don't think we're prepared."

This is not the comfort he sought at all. Scout doesn't want to have to worry about having made the right choice to give this kid to Danny, let alone how soon it's going to happen. That's all anyone can talk about, it seems, a thousand different voices screaming at him, scaring him into a stupor until he can't even her his own heartbeat –he wonders...he wonders if he's going to survive this.

Nervous, he rubs his stomach and tries to swallow. It's difficult, though, it really is, and his heartbeat sounds like 'moira'. He says it to himself, in his head, as his hand moves, because the thought tastes like certainty. It is the only certainty he has, the only solid thing in a world of water, and he'd very much like to keep it.

At his silence, Danny tries to nudge some words out of him. "How is that lady a' yours? She must be about ready to pop about now."

He nearly chokes on breathing in, for fuck's sake. Is that really what people say? So unversed in the etiquette of something he should be an expert on, Scout finds himself lost, floundering for some appropriate response. He's always been pretty good at lying. He can't remember a time he hasn't had to rely on lies, though.

"Somethin' like that." He mutters, uselessly. And then, weakly, "How's Ma? I ain't gonna get to see her over christmas an' all."

The laugh Danny gives him is short and sad. "She's pretty sore about it, to tell you the truth, but she's awright. Jeb sent her a letter, y'know."

"He sent me one, too, the bastard. I ripped it up."

His decisions are met with encouragement, and it's perhaps the only part of the conversation he's glad to have. Hatred always united the Weiss boys more than anything else ever could: even baseball. A common enemy meant a common goal, even if Jeb was less insidious than the New York Mets.

"Damn right you did." Danny tells him. And then he laughs some more. "Goddamn right you did. We ain't got no business with that sonuvabitch."

It goes very quiet, then, and Scout knows they should get back to talking business. He knows it, but fights anyway, trying to think of some witticism or anecdote that will make it any easier. "Ma sent me a Yastrzemski jersey."

"That was real sweet of her."

"Yeah, it was." He says, quietly. "Tell her I said thanks an' all. An' that I'm real sorry I can't come down this year."

He is. He's always sorry thesedays, but as he's finding out, everybody has something to apologise for. Danny doesn't take it to heart, or anything, and clicks his tongue in concurrence. "Awright, awright, don't squeeze your heart to me." It gets real quiet again, and the pressure to get back on topic is too much for Scout to overcome. The distraction would never hold for long. "That kid a' yours –whatever it gets called- it's gonna be here pretty soon. You'll –you'll call somethin', when your girl starts, uh, havin' it, right?"

Scout thinks about Sniper finding him, blood-handed, cold-footed, useless swine, clambering in the dirt,too crippled by pain to walk. Danny can't see that. None of them should see that. "You won't come right away."

"Why not?"

"Jesus Christ, Danny kid." Scout laughs out of nerves, sort of manically. "I'm gonna need a little more time than that." What he's just said finally catches up with him, and he panics. "My girl, I mean. She's gonna want a moment with the kid. I mean, Jesus, give me a minute to cut the cord, wouldja?"

Danny laughs. "Yeah, awright. How _many_ minutes?"

Scout lifts one shoulder and drops it, passively. His eyes drop to his abdomen. "I don't know, man. A couple days. Then you can...then you can have her." He pauses, again, as if hurt. "I'll send you an address by post for a hotel nearby."

"Awright." Danny concludes. "That sound-" And then, there's a slam, and other voices, and Scout has to wait before Danny even speaks to him again. "Denise's home. I really should go."

"So go." Scout says, easily, ans then realises he's being sort of rude. It's not as if he means it, and he doesn't think he's especially rude. That's the problem with not knowing who you really are –you don't get to define these sorts of limits. "It was real nice talking to you, though. An' I hope you sort it all out."

"You, too, kid." Danny sighs. "Man, sometimes, I'd kill to be outta this place, though. She drives me crazy, she really does." He laughs, again, all strange and pinches. "Man, listen to me yammer. Night, kid. You look after that girl a' yours, since she was nice enough to get sexy with you an' all."

Scout sighs. "You too, man. Goodnight."

"Goodnig-"

He's so glad when it's over. For a few minutes, he just stays there, in the chair, with his own thoughts. But, eventually, he manages to pull himself up from sitting, and walks to the office door. When he opens it, the jazz spills in, and the smell of cigarette smoke. He looks at them both, nervously, and smiles.

For a while, the moment is tight, until Miss P crushes out her cigarette and stands up in a single, elegant motion. "I should be getting something finished, I'm sure." She says, looking at Scout. Then her eyes flick to Medic. "But this was pleasant. You make for quite satisfactory company."

Scout holds out a useless hand. "You don't gotta leave on my account, Miss P."

That stops her in her steps, and she turns to look at him, her face drawn and amused. She lets out a genuine, golden laugh. "Mister Weiss." She laughs. "I think you can be sure I don't do anything on your account."

And she goes. She goes, and leaves him in the milky light with Medic, still reclined, listening to the striding piano and the deep, brassy saxaphone. Scout has never been much for music –well, for singers, really, because they never sounded honest. They still don't. Still, he makes a way to go, when Medic halts him.

"You look as if you've heard something awful." The man says. "You're under no obligation to tell me, but perhaps it would improve your mood."

"It might." Scout laughs. "It sure couldn't make it any worse." So he sits where Miss Pauling had sat, her chair still somewhat warm, and lets himself sit back a little. His back still hurts him. Hell, his treacherous heart hurts him, but he's building up a tolerance to all of these aches.

Medic leans to his side and lifts a glass decanter of deep amber whiskey. It is very full, and the man is by no means drunk. It's nice to see him wound looser. It's nice to see him, to tell the truth. "Would you like a drink?" He thinks Medic must be joking, but when he doesn't start laughing, Medic's serious silence prompts him to speak.

"Naw, I oughtta stick to soda." He says, quietly. "But thanks all the same."

Medic smiles to him. "Suit yourself, Kliener." He says, pleasantly. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what's wrong?"

It hangs in the air. A doubt, a suspicion, a jealousy dark in Scout's mind. He swallows. "I guess I'll have that drink, then."

That makes Medic laugh, truer and more golden than he has heard in so long, and it even manipulates a smile from Scout, that's how nice it is. Medic is pleasant to the core. He makes Scout want to crawl into bed and cuddle, for Chrissake, and Scout has never cuddled in his entire damn life. Medic makes Scout want to give people a second chance. If you can escape the NSDAP regime and still find it in you to forgive, well then, Scout thinks he might be a better man.

The man hands him a very small glass of it. The smell is fiery and it burns his lips badly on the first sip, but he doesn't mind it too much. "Promise you won't laugh at me?"

Medic lays a hand on his heart. That kills Scout, it really does. "Of course I won't." He says, too innocuously. It's the best Scout will get.

"I jus'-"He tries to get his thoughts into order. That will help. He starts again, more certain. "I'm jus' losin' my faith in humanity, Doc." He says morosely. "Danny's fightin' wit' his wife, and Spy doesn't give a damn about me. The less said about Sniper the better..." The boy scrubs his face. "I'm losin' my mind here! I jus' need to know that people can be happy...together. Like, wit' eachother. That they don't gotta kill eachother to endure. Does that make any sense?"

Medic looks at him, warmly. "I didn't strike you for the idealistic sort."

It gets a bitter little laugh out of Scout. "Man, I don't now what kinda sort I am. I jus' don't wanna be alone. I don't wanna believe that's what my future has to be. It's too bleak."

"What is it you would like?"

"Proof!"The kid cries. "Proof that two people can stand eachother, even if they're awful. Jus' some kind of sign to know I ain't been tricked by all a' those movies, an' magazines. I-..." He looks at Medic, and for the first time in a long time, sees him. Sees the man with this awful and poisonous heart full of love. For all of the good it's done him, Medic still finds the heart to smile. He still finds it in him to tolerate Scout, and to like him, even after all of it. "I need to know people can love eachother wit'out it bein' a lie." he says, slower.

Medic is still smiling serenely at him. "Would you believe me?"

"Would I believe you if what?"

Medic laughs "For a smart boy, you can be so oblivious." he says. "Would you believe me, if I told you I loved you?"

There is a napalm quiet. It burns through Scout in seconds -he is never prepared, even when he sees it coming.

"How can you?" He gets out, in a tiny voice.

"Hmm?" Medic looks at him with full eyes. It's too much for Scout to stand.

"How can you?" The boy laughs, exasperated. "What could you possibly like about me?"

The man looks down at his shoes, shyly, but fondly. "Everything." When Scout makes a start to protest, he's halted by even quieter words. "You're passionate. And fun. My days are quite mundane, and you bring such joy to them. Joy that I haven't seen since I buried her."

Jesus Christ. Scout looks at him, never daring to believe.

"But I ain't her, Doc. I'm disloyal. I'm fickle. I don't know what the hell I want half the time, and when I do, I can't have it. I'm jus' a stupid kid."

Again, more quiet. Medic looks at him once more, gives him the gift of beautiful blue eyes, and smiles. "Wisdom is a gift of age. You're allowed to be young." He sighs. "Both of our loves will be gone soon. Mine already is and I cannot resurrect her in you."

"Doc-"

"They do not need our protection. You don't need mine, either." He laughs. "for God's sake, do not act as if you are already dead. You're not even old yet."

"I feel like it." Scout murmurs. He kicks at the floor pathetically. "I miss feelin' young. I miss them wantin' me." He looks at Medic, at his wit's end. "I miss bein' able to sleep on my front, for Chrissake. I don't want much, y'know? I jus' want..."

"Proof?" Medic says it, and in that second Scout knows he has it. In the man's patient smile, and in the way he walks over, calmly, seeking consent before laying a hand on scout.. But he does, he lays his gentle hands on the boy's shoulders and kisses him true enough that the doubt melts away and all he's left with is love –love, love like sunlight, burning through Scout's invincible winter.

And Scout kisses back. He does, because he's got what he wants, and not who he wants, or even when. But the best way to make it through this intact is to realise: two out of three isn't bad.  
Somewhere, off, the clock goes off for midnight.

"Merry Christmas, Scout." He says.

Scout swallows. "Merry Christmas, Doc."


	24. XXIV

(AN: i didn't mean for this to take so long. i suck.)

Scout doesn't remembering falling into Spy's bed, but being woken on two hours of sleep doesn't motivate him much to question it.

It doesn't matter if he fell, or if he was pushed. It matters that the man is at the door in silk pyjamas, coaxing him out of bed with sweet words. He's half-conscious, adrift in the ocean of duvet, a tiny, pale island in a sheet sea, curled up and groaning. 'A phonecall', he thinks Spy keeps saying, but he's had his phonecall. When he continues drowning in the bed, drowsy, feeling feverish and weak, two hands descend upon him like lightning, and pull him to standing.

They shuffle down to the base telephone together.

Blearily, the clock-face laughs at him, but reads all the same. It's five or so, an hour he has not seen awake in so long. Scout's eyes sting, and he grips Spy's arm hard, stub nails and all, as if afraid he will lose the man to his dreams. His body is dull with ache, and it's far to early to be kicked so hard. Blindly, he reaches for the telephone and is given a seat.

Mid-yawn, he mumbles. "Scout Weiss speakin' –what'cha want?"

And of all things on heaven and earth, he doesn't expect to hear a man's voice, deep and rich and warm like some exotic heat. "I'm sorry to have woken you." Sniper sounds distant, but alert. He sounds like slander, and Scout becomes very conscious of Spy besides him. The man offers him a cigarette. He takes it with a shaky hand. "It's getting late here. I just thought –I just thought to call you."

"O'course." Scout grumbles. "S'not like I was actually asleep or nothin'" The truth is, he's actually inexplicably glad to hear the man's voice, or he would be, if he was more alive. It's nice not to be forgotten, especially given how easily they forget about eachother.

But Scout is wary of communicating his joy, or gratification, or whatever it is he's feeling. He doesn't trust the man, and isn't hastening to, so he keeps his tone as frosty as possible.

Oblivious, Sniper gets out some meek words. "I can call back, if you'd really-"

"Naw." Scout sighs. "Naw, don't do that, I wasn't-" Scout sighs, and rests his head on his free hand. He smokes with the other. "–look, I'm awake now."

After a pause, one full of Sniper's warm breath, and the heat of Australia –Christ, Scout has dreamed it so many times: the scent of skin and sweat and those foreign flowers –the man pipes up. "I couldn't get to a phone earlier. My mum-" The man laughs. "I was busy."

Scout hums, trying to give as little away as possible. "I didn't expect you'd be so quick to talk to me again. Figured you'd be –I dunno, embarrassed."

The man is quiet for ice ages. Eternities, and all the while Spy is just sitting there, staring at some bleak corner of the room. Scout lets his cigarette die, crushing it out on the desk. He waits for there man to speak. He doesn't expect him to say. "I'm sorry, kid."

Scout has to laugh, or he'll cry. "You're sorry –I'm sorry. We all are." He sniffs. "We all are for somethin'."

It takes more time for Sniper to get the words out. For once, Scout doesn't rush him. He doesn't have the stamina to. "I'm sorry." The man says again. "It weren't fair to leave you like that. I thought-" A sharp laugh. "I thought you were gonna go off on me, but you were just in pain."

Scout swallows. He takes his time, too. He needs it. "I wish you'd stayed."

"I wish I'd stayed, too. Wish I'd done a lot of things. Wish I'd-..." For everything Scout could be angry at him for, he can only seem to grasp at pity. Look at this pitiful little man, a million miles away, unable to speak. "Now I wish I'd stayed."

"You didn't even see me to the Infirmary."

"I walked out!" Sniper's laugh is so sad. "I walked out the door, an' I got on my plane."

"Why?"

There is another pause. Scout can imagine him shrugging. "I...I was in over my head. I felt like a frightened kid."

Scout laughs, this time, in airy disbelief. " _You_  were  _scared_?"

"I thought you knew that about me, kid. I was just as bloody scared as you." The novocain makes his memory patchy. He remembers how Sniper had flung him so careless to Medic, like an object, a cursed talisman, and how hard the frown lines on his white face has looked –like a devil's sick of sin. Scout had been melting like paraffin wax, useless and scared. How could Sniper possible feel what he felt? "I ran to the cab and drove to the airport like I was trying to outrun my shame or somethin'. I shouldn't have –I shouldn't have left you."

Scout doesn't have any words to say to that none at all. Because it's true: Sniper shouldn't have left him, terrified, unable to stand, barely able to get down handfuls of air. It's been said now, and Scout didn't have the foresight to think of anything more to say.

"You're okay?" Sniper asks him softly.

"I'm alive." Scout says. He says that just to be difficult. It's obvious Sniper wants to ask something, but isn't finding it easy. For that, Scout offers no assistance, and lets the man be. After a while, it comes out.

"And...and your girl -was it Moira? She's-..."

It's a damn close shade too concern. Apprehensive, Scout manages a smile to himself, and leans back in his seat. He rubs his abdomen in great circles, thinking how much weight the name carries, how there's no 'elizabeth' –he won't have it. His girl is Moira, and Sniper just confirms it with the question.

He sighs. "No, it's...I still got a few weeks left." It's quiet again, and scout thinks about saying how hurt he is, or how betrayed he feels. He thinks about making some accusations, but the truth is, he's tired, and he doesn't have the strength. Wearily, he grumbles to himself.

"You must be looking forward to having everything back to normal." Sniper says. And like so many before him, the words don't fit, unable to slip down chutes too narrow. That isn't what Scout wants, and they can't tell him otherwise.

"What's normal?" He sighs. "It ain't gonna be normal. Not like before, anyway."

Sniper is less patient. "Look, however it's gonna be, we can't keep on like this."

"Like what?"

The man growls like he does when he's short on niceness. Maybe Scout knows what he means and is playing dumb, or maybe he's genuinely ignorant, it doesn't matter. Sniper will have to say it outright and explicit, open to the mercy of Scout's prejudices.

"We're professionals, kid. We gotta be able to do our jobs, and that mean tolerating eachother. What's happened's happened." He says. "You gotta move on, like an adult."

It's a poor choice of timing, and a poor choice of words. So poor that even half-conscious, Scout can feel the heat rising in his face, and his hands curling up, nasty, ready to break. "Don't you talk to me like I'm a kid." He hisses. "An' what 'happened' wasn't my fault! You can't hold me accountable for the shit you put me through."

Sniper doesn't rise to it. He remains level and calm like an ocean of dark and treacherous water. "you want me to be honest with you, kid? You want to know why I couldn't stand you?"

"Honesty'd be a nice change." Scout snaps.

For a while, there's more quiet. The dangerous kind, but Sniper doesn't wait too long to start his sermon.

"You weren't ever curious about me. You never asked me anythin', or gave a shit about who the hell I was. You just had this idea of what I was supposed to be: like I was some kind of saint." The man pauses. "Anythin' I did that contradicted that, you either ignored, or took to heart, like it was a personal fuckin' offense. You didn't give a shit about me. The only person you wanted to be with was you, so I let you do that."

Scout is a little too struck to speak, at first. He was so sure –so certain that Sniper would shout at him, any old bullshit. The worst part is the prickling of his eyes, the heat rising, because it's true. What scout resents most about the man is that he sees scout, not as a legend, or a devil, but as he is, a nasty little boy, with ailing heart and criminal eyes. And he's the only one not afraid to say 'no'.

He starts to tremble, but doesn't say anything. He can't. Desperately, he tries to go back in his head and look for something to prove the man wrong, or at least some kind of warning sign, but finds nothing. He is left with nothing but a horrible truth. What can he say?

Lamely, the boy finds an excuse. "I had a little more to think about than jus' you."He whimpers. A tear is going to ruin him, and Spy will pity him, will look down at him for not being able to govern his emotions.

"Yeah." Sniper mumbles. "Yeah, an' that's noble an' all, but it's your choice. You don't get to make yourself a martyr over it."

Now he really is crying. Crying, and drinking in his own poisonous words, hoping somehow, somewhere, it might make Sniper a little sicker. "You ain't got any idea!" Scout hisses.

"You said you liked your choices. Don't make it out to be some 'great injustice'."

Scout is no martyr. He has suffered no great Injustices, aside from disappointment –but that's what life is, life is disappointing, and while to his own he is a martyr, to anybody else's he is an incidental, an isolated incident. He's a boy.

He swallows the worst of the sob and lets out a sad little laugh. "Don't quote me to myself, alright?" He sniffs. "I'm allowed to change my mind."

Sniper sounds trite, for just a second. He sighs down the phone. "Don't cry on me, kid." And it' s only a little thing, only the tiniest string of words to make Scout feel better, but really, what is an ocean if not a multitude of drops? "Look, I ought to give you some time. You have a good christmas."

"Mmm." Scout sniffs, and nods. Maybe this is what being an adult is about. Maybe this is the hero's errand, but if so, it doesn't feel particularly heroic. "You, too. I'll –I'll see ya."

The call ends as abruptly as it had started, and for a few seconds, Scout sits there, in a paralysis. Maybe Sniper is right, not just about what he's said, but about other things, too. And if Scout has been blind to him, then he knows that Medic will have suffered, too.

At his side, Spy touches his arm. "It is not even light yet, amour." He says, "Come back to bed."

He's always seen Spy. In clear detail, and for what he is. There's no agenda behind it either. The man is struggling just as much as scout is, hiding behind his cigarettes.. Scout knows Spy fears getting older, getting trapped, becoming sentimental, and he knows, lord, no matter how much he fights it, that a part of Spy will always be in love with Sniper,a fool for him, a folly.

They're fools together, though. Both of them forget to see, sometimes, or hurt when they just mean progress. Maybe neither of them are good men, but, in one sense, they have eachother.

They do sleep together, and Scout holds tighter, truer, as if the room is a lion's den. The light will break soon, and they'll have to wake up and open crackers and pretend they didn't forget about presents, and Scout will try not to think of his Ma.

But for now, it's dark.  
  
-  
  
The light is full by the time he does wake, warm and rested. It's probably about midday.

It takes him a moment to register the room, as always, because of it's facelessness. Luckily, there are hints. There are a stack of letters on the table, by a long, elegant opener, and Spy's jacket is slung over the back of a chair. There's an ashtray, too, that's awfully clean. Scout lets himself take in the room before he sits up, both hands on the mattress, his back curling off and eventually up. There never has been much of him, and yet he's always taken up so much of Spy's bed.

The man is sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pyjamas, a column of smoke flowing over his left shoulder, fiddling with something. Probably his lighter, or the cigarette tin itself. Rested, for once, and eager to engage in the festivities, Scout moves over the bed carefully and drapes his arms over the man's shoulders, wilting there.

"Mornin'," He mumbles, breathing in deep against the nap[e of Spy's neck, just below where his hair comes to. Usually, Scout doesn't like grey hair, hides his apprehensions at the streak of silver runni9gn through Medic's and urges his Ma to dye hers, but Spy's...his doesn't make him look old. There are caught parts in place, but they look lit with starlight, if anything, graceful and dignified. It reminds him of the crest of an ocean wave. The white bit.

The man turns his face, this dark little half-smile at play on his lips, and laughs. "So you are alive, cher. I was ready to move you to the morgue."

Spy kisses him. He tastes like tobacco, but it's crisp and neat and doesn't linger. Scout pulls away first and leans on the bed, yawning, letting Spy stand. "Merry Christmas, asshole." He says, scared that the man might somehow forget. This has been his nightmare for months, being alone, stranded at Teufort on the most important day of the year.

It isn't so bad.

Spy joins him, laying back on the pillows and sighing, not bored, but content, which makes a welcome change. He looks at Scout and smiles again. "Mmm, joyeux noel." He mumbles, stroking Scout's hair. It makes the boy satiated and sleepy. "I 'ave a gift for you."

Scout half-covers his face, groaning. Really, he's glad for it –excited, even, because it brings back a little bit of home. And Spy, he's smarter than to get Scout something he won't like or won't use. Spy's smart like that, and practical, in his own kind of way. He says, "You didn't have to do that." But he doesn't really mean it.

Spy waves a hand. "Nonsense. Something to cheer you up. It is nothing enormous, I assure you."

Scout's coming around to the little things. To thinking that the drops are what makes the ocean, every single little 'don't cry on me, kid' making up something bigger, and more meaningful. So Scout looks at him, and smiles, honestly as he can.

"Really. Thanks, man." He says, quietly. "Is it a pack a' cigarettes?"

Spy has a good laugh at that. "As if I would be so predictable, american." He sort of sneers, but it's only in jest. Scout likes that, and he takes it. He waits on his back as Spy gets up, and walks across the room. Jesus, the man is so damn beautiful. So graceful. Scout could watch him for hours, but only does so for seconds. The man returns with a small box and hands It to him.

Scout has never been particularly patient. It's not like Spy needs him to wait, so he opens it quickly, sliding the lid into his left palm and peering inside, almost afraid at what he might find. Even the worst of sentiment could slay him right now, and if Spy's being sweet then he could be knocked down with a feather.

Inside is a silver ball link chain, all curled up as if sleeping. He fishes it out tentatively, unsure what use he has for a chain, or any jewellery. Apprehensive, he searches Spy's knowing smile for some kind of clue. But that's all it is, a thin, silver chain, like the kind you keep tags on or something. He lets it pour into his palm.

"Thanks." He says, quietly. "But I don't, uh, I don't get it."

Spy smiles languidly at him and rolls onto his back, smoking to the ceiling. "That is my 'alf. You will 'ave to consult another for the second part." Scout nods, cheerfully, and goes to put it back into the bow, when he feels Spy's eyes still on him. "There is something else in there, cheri. My, you're blind."

To his truth, there is. It's thin, and about the size of the box. Eager, Scout tips it out, and a tiny card falls onto the sheets, brilliant with reflected light. It appears to be in a very small case. On inspection, he sees it's a baseball card, with a signature and everything –but not one he already has.

He looks at Spy very slowly. "This real?"

The man laughs. "You wound me, boy. Of course it is real."

Scout can't seem to believe it, though. He turns it over again, and again, and then scrutinises the signature hard, but for all efforts, he can't find a telling mark, or a damn thing wrong. Still on his back, Spy seems pleased with himself, watching the boy scan the gift in something close to disbelief.

"Is something wrong?" He asks, after a while. "Do you already 'ave this card?"

And in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, Scout smiles at him. "Of course I don't have this card." He murmurs. "Nobody has this damn card. It's two thousand a pop, if you can find one." Still slow, he moves over to Spy and nudges the man's arm, so that he's hooked beneath it. They're together, at least, and there's a wonderful weightlessness and ease to it. "Where the hell d'you find a signed Johnny Bench, anyway?"

Spy shrugs. "Now without great difficulty. But you are pleased, no?"

Scout doesn't say anything, then, and that's how the man knows he's done his job. Because when the kid is unhappy, he perceives some kind of pressure, and starts thanking people or apologising with such ardent desperation. That's how he knows this is something really special: Scout is very content to sit there, and not say anything. About ten minutes pass, and when he looks over again, the boy is nearly asleep, nestled into his arm, enjoying the smell of tobacco and all that it brings back.

He's funny like that. What's even funnier is what Scout asks him, after the generous silence, canting up his chin and looking at Spy with level eyes.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

The man permits it. "I'm feeling generous, amour. You may ask me many things." The boy risks a laugh, but keeps his fist tight in Spy's shirt like he's afraid the question will dissolve the man from under his hand. Maybe that should give Spy some pause, or some desire to stop this train of thought Scout is driving. He doesn't know where it will be going, but knows the destination is necessary. He can't leave now, and go home, because there is no home to be going to.

So he settles, and nods.

"You-..." Scout looks at him with eyes that are very difficult to read, even for Spy, who has been reading from him for so long. "You were with him...wit' Sniper, I mean. Did you ever..." Whatever it is Scout's trying to say, he's having the hardest time doing it. But without torture, there would be no science. "Did you ever stop feelin'...something for him? Even small?"

Spy doesn't react right away. That's the giveaway. The sign that matches the others. All of these telltale behaviours and little quirks match up and Scout knows he has to make some kind of accusation. He has to make it known.

"What are you saying?" Spy asks him slowly.

"I'm sayin'-" What is he saying? Scout tries to speak without sounding cryptic or foolish. He musters the only sensitivity he has left and swallows. "I'm sayin' you still have somethin' for him. Even somethin' small."

They both know, and have seen breathing that the kindest thing you can ever do for someone is to pretend you love them less than you do. For a moment, Spy is silent, and that's all Scout needs. But the moment doesn't last.

The man looks at the sheets and smiles like an open wound. "Even when we were nothing, 'e said to me -so many times, so many, that 'e was not looking to love me. That it was a 'means to an end'." The man snorts, harsh. "And after all of that, I still believed 'e would –...prove me wrong."

You always think they're going to save you. The worst ones. And Scout could hate him for that, but at least he's honest –and right. He has a lot in common with Sniper: they're both men who break hearts, but try their hardest, and they both struggle with keeping promises.

Yet, he has a lot in common with Spy, too. He doesn't know the man's middle name or his favourite food or what the man looks like at his happiest. But he does know that they're both afraid of the same things: of loneliness and open arms full of 'love'. They are both as afraid of being alone as they are of being with anybody else. It's kind of sad, but beautiful, too.

"An' he left you?" Spy nods. "What a perfect asshole."

They both have a sad laugh at that. And after a while, when Spy doesn't look so soul-crushingly bleak, he manages to get out words that really mean something to Scout. Ones that give him hope instead of despair.

"You are still so young." The man whispers. "For God's sake, don't waste your life on 'im."

And it really would be a waste, because Scout knows there is a man with eyes bluer than mercy that would wake up with him for the rest of their lives, and waste any day with Scout if he wanted, or take any day, because his desire to love the boy means more than life itself.

You want to know the worst part? Scout would rather waste his life alone.  
  
-

It starts to snow eventually.

Not tacky flurries of it, like back home, or some postcard, but it flakes a little. It's nice enough to enjoy while they sit inside, enjoying what could be improvised into a christmas dinner. Despite Medic being a scientist with far too many metaphors, he's a good enough chemist to be a good enough cook, and everything is nice enough. It isn't like home, though, even with scout having to remind himself that there's a good reason he can't go back.

There's some kind of music on, Scout doesn't know exactly what it is, but it's pleasant. He doesn't eat very much. He never does. It's habit from childhood, just like answering the telephone. Whatever he's eating, he can only ever finish half of the plate, and that's it. Nobody says anything about it, and he's glad.

Afterwards, Scout goes to the Rec room to catch the second half of 'Signing in the Rain', with Pyro joining him. It's his Ma's favourite film, and they always watch it on christmas. It's silly, but he finds great serenity in knowing that somewhere across the country, most of his brothers and their wives, Danny and possibly Jeb included are settled down to watch it, signing along to all the corny songs and that.

He's near the end when somebody raps at the Rec room door. Scout groans, because he does actually quite like the film, and he'd like something to enjoy on this of all days. When he swivels around in his seat, though, it isn't some trite invitation for a drink or even a half-whisper at cigarettes. Red-nosed, taking off her coat, Miss Pauling is shivering there.

Awkwardly, he stands, and looks at her. Miss Pauling is a very frank woman: she wouldn't be here without good reason. Usually a legal one, too. But when she comes over to them, what she says is, "Merry Christmas." In a sort-of cheerful voice.

Pyro cocks his head at her, but makes no sound. Scout is too confused to, so she does the talking.

"Next month's move is to Dustbowl. The paperwork will be distributed tomorrow." She sounds happier. Scout thinks this is her only day off, and there she is, telling them all about some memo. It'd be easy to dislike her: too easy, because while she is impatient and unreadable and kind of rude, she's also very beautiful, and a great dancer. She never has to do anything especially extraordinary to knock Scout out, and that's what he loves most about women. They drive him crazy the way guys can't.

She goes to leave, but stops suddenly as if struck by lightning and not by purpose. When she turns, she's smiling. "I almost forgot." And she sounds very different now. He can't help but wonder –and Scout is sorry for it, but he's human- what her voice sounds like in more intimate moments; before bed, colourful with laughter or all breathy from a good sort of kiss. "Mister Weiss, if you'd follow me."

It's not that he doesn't trust her, but he is apprehensive.

She takes him on a merry little walk through base, to where her office is, in front of him the whole way and saying nothing about him taking his time. "I want to be clear." She says. "This was an idea of mine. I hold you in the highest esteem, Scout, but that esteem is purely professional."

He doesn't ignore the use of his name. Of course, he's smarter than to mention it, but Scout holds onto it. It makes him feel very warm. "You're scarin' me, Miss P." He attempts a joke. "You givin' me a promotion?"

She laughs at that, all plain and airy. "I suppose RED does need an optimist around." The walk is longer than scout remembers. He wants to catch the final scene, at least, but knows he won't. Ma always applauds, and all of her children groan, even if it's internally, and even when they're alone. It all seems so far away now. "It was Mister Janvier's idea –this gift, after he discovered an interesting technicality in RED's personnel legislation."

A gift? Scout doesn't think he'll like her idea of a gift very much, but begins summoning the energy to sound grateful.

Once they reach her office, he takes a spare seat to rest while she opens her desk drawer and takes out a small box. In the light, she's especially pretty, and if Scout didn't feel and look awful, he might try saying something witty or flattering. But he does feel, and look terrible, so he doesn't say anything at all.

Coming around her desk, Miss Pauling pushes a strand of hair from her face. "The legislation states that any personnel on-site for a period of more than twenty-four hours is legally considered a RED employee and must be issued standard identification."

Scout stares at her. She laughs again.

"It's an odd document, I'll grant you. Usually, class uniform is considered enough, since all of your details are put through respawn anyway. But temps are issued a pair of ID tags." The replacement has a set. He wore them on the first day, and that was it. Scout hopes, beyond hope's sake that he won't be issued something medical. If he can destroy all empirical evidence that this yea has happened, he will.

But that isn't what she's hinting at.

"I see Mister Janvier gave you his half." She says, gesturing to the silver ball-link chain he's wearing. Either Spy has been very sweet, or very nasty. Whichever way you splice it, the man has done something. "I suppose I should give you mine."

The box is pretty light. He isn't sure what exactly to expect. A pair of tags doesn't surprise him, after all that's been said, and he's about to sigh when the light hits the engraving. He can about squint at the letters, and becomes struck with an awful shyness the moment he reads the first name.

_Weiss, Moira_

The rest of the details are blank, save for the word RED at the bottom of both. It isn't anything special, but he feels very overcome and doesn't do anything. He won't cry in front of Miss P –he's rather hang himself. It's seeing the name that does it. His throat is a pinhole when he swallows, and the voice that comes out is a train-wreck.

"Miss P..." He says, looking up. She's staring back at him, looking very soft and human. She's even smiling. "Miss P, this is-"

She sits down next to him, quietly, and looks anywhere but him. The next few words are important, he knows, but take her a lifetime to vocalise.

"For all of your – _quirks_ , shall we say, you're quite indispensable to RED, and I appreciate the service you provide us with." She says, very stiffly. "I'm aware-..."

And the façade falls to tatters. Her voice goes from steel to satin in a second.

"I really can't imagine how you must be coping." She says. "What you're-" Her voice catcher. Still, she won't look at him. Scout can appreciate that. He's still steeling himself, feeling the cool metal over in his hands. "What you're doing is noble, and despite my best intentions, I admire you for it."

He swallows. "Thanks, Miss P."

"You're still a great inconvenience, of course." She doesn't fail to add. "All of your paperwork has been quite a chore, and having you do office work was the last thing I would ever have suggested. You're sloppy, and quite abrasive and  _lazy_."

She goes very quiet for another minute, and then sighs. "However much I say against you, I will admit, you have my attention, and-..."

He nudges her, trying to grin. " _And?_ " He croons. She elbows him right back.

"And most of the time I don't find you  _entirely_  as irritating as I once did."

They fall into a quiet again. Scout takes off the chain, and hooks on the tags, before putting it back on. It now sags with the weight of the tags, but looks sharp enough. They're sure as hell not cheap, but it's something he can feel proud of. Even if the iron sky crushes them all –even if Danny really does call her 'Elizabeth'...at least he'll have something to hold on to.

"You look sharp." She tells him, once they're on.

It's the only moment Scout can think of to ask, so he does. "You think I've changed, Miss P?"

She nods. "Into something more tolerable, yes." But when his sense of seriousness lingers, she amends her statement. Say what you will about her terrifying work ethic, or her marksmanship, Miss Pauling isn't ignorant to humanity. "I think this entire experience has made you more honest with yourself." She says. "You're not such a child anymore."

There was a boy before. Every bit as lazy and abrasive and caustic as Miss Pauling described, but nastier, more removed, his heart in Boston and his body in many beds. But Scout isn't a boy anymore –she's right. Maybe he can be pitiful and selfish –like a chameleon turning yellow at the hands of responsibility, but he can also make music of his phobias to turn fear into his strongest instrument.

Everything will be different, he tells himself. Now he knows now to heal. Now he knows it makes no sense to have this much anger for men with fickle hearts or to amputate the parts of himself that others grow fond of. The water, he remembers, will wash way everything if he lets it, and the fire will destroy the evidence. That night, he sleeps in his own bed, thinking on his sins.

He washes his hands in cold water, and he burns his sheets.


	25. XXV

Most of them are on the flight back when it happens.   
  
Engineer is just landing, and Heavy has been in the air a few hours. Sniper is at the boarding gate, and while none of them know, there is a sense of shared apprehension, of dread, that must span thousands of miles. It permeates base, too, despite of those being present, for the first hour, Spy is the only one to know.   
  
They had both been wary of another night alone and what it might do to them. It has been sweet, really. He's never pictured it turning into this. When Spy wakes, the boy's face is nearly blue, his lips purple, crying ferociously as he writhes.   
  
And in all of Spy's nightmares, the boy still comes plunging for him, as if under some kind of ocean, crushed and pale and pathetic, bitter as the cud, and hanging open as if possessed and sick of sin. In the sodium twilight, in consciousness, Scout was shaking his head as if to plead.   
  
So soon? He thought –no, they both did, both thought they had time to be lazy, and complacent. What would have prepared any of them for this? Uneasy and unready, he winds his arms around Scout's shoulders, as if to ease the boy's fight.   
  
“You're not breathing, am--”  
  
“I can't!” You never heard a man so hoarse in his whole life, body shaking and shuddering. The worst part is the helplessness. Spy knows there is nothing he can do at all to alleviate the boy's suffering, but keeps one arm around him anyway and lights a cigarette. For Scout, though, and not himself.   
  
He slips it between the boy's pretty lips and tries to smile. “It will not 'elp much with your breath.” Scout doesn't seem to mind, inhaling it desperately and demolishing a good portion in a single drag. His arms seem pinned to his sides, angular, and his fingers are caught in a barbed-wire fist on each hang: Spy takes out the cigarette for him. “'ow long?”   
  
Scout pants, and then tries to gulp down out, but the lack of rhythm makes it all the more difficult. His hands are haemoglobin red with rosy water when he finally uncurls one hand, to cover his eyes. “I d-don't know...” He whimpers. “A couple h-h-hours ago, but--”  
  
It breaks off into another round of cries, despite the boy's best efforts to keep the sounds in. It's as if they are being torn out his his lungs, leaving him breathless and weak. “You must control yourself.” Spy says. He knows it's the wrong thing to say, but Scout is unintelligible.   
  
Reckless with misery, the boy shakes his head and takes another quick breath in. “I can't.” He whimpers, gracelessly, lifting his sticky hand up to wipe his face clean, as if hot and dirty with shame. His chest stiffens, but doesn't move until another wave of agony drowns him into useless splutters.   
  
“You 'ave to breathe.” Spy tells him. “You 'ave to control your--”  
  
“You're wrong!” Scout's voice is wrecked. He tries to kick out, away from Spy and his arms, but lacks the strength to do so, and likely, the strength to stand. He fights, though, battering his legs and thrashing wildly like a fish on a line until the fight leaves him entirely and he sinks back, still sobbing and still trembling. “You're wrong.” He splutters. “I c-can't control it. It ain't possible.”   
  
It would be easy to contradict him, but really, Scout is trying, and he's scared and this isn't how the boy likely imagined things at all. Spy knows he isn't who Scout needs, or indeed, wants, but right now he's the only one in the boy's atmosphere, and so takes it upon himself to try and calm the boy down. It doesn't help that the cigarette is burning away between his fingers and rosy water is beginning to dampen his trousers. Usually, Spy would have nothing to do with such undignified circumstances, but swallows his revulsion because it is less poisonous than his pride.   
  
Scout is cold and trembling, but Spy strokes his hair anyway. “It will not last forever, amour.” He tries to think of a comforting prospect. Some slice of how Scout has shared with him, but the truth is, they are both aligned at the broken places, and nothing more. That is a side to Scout he does not have the privilege to. “There must be things you 'ave missed doing, that you will be free to do now?”   
  
After a while, Scout starts to gasp, pulling away and trying to summon back his air. He snivels and tries to scrub the tears from his face, and every trace of them. “I don't know.” He mumbles.   
  
“A drink?” Spy tries to supply him. The boy nods. He even tries a tight laugh, despite how pathetic it sounds.   
  
“Yeah.” He breathes. “A drink, a-an' a shower an' an orgasm –oh, God...” He buries his face in the pillow, and does try, Spy can see, he is trying to keep some air down, and not to splutter and choke. He can't imagine how difficult it is, so says no more.   
  
How could he be prepared for honesty, when Scout curls even tighter, and his voice breaks even more?   
  
“I miss home.” He blubbers. “Ma would k-know what to do...”   
  
Keeping his hand in the boy's hair, Spy laughs. “Yes, of course.” He says. “I apologise, but this is not where my expertise lies.”   
  
Even Scout tries a laugh at that. He makes a move to sit up. It takes him some time and great difficulty, huffing the entire way as if he's about to pass out. If he does, spy has no clue what he'll do, and he knows he isn't very useful at all. It's a feeling he's not particularly familiar with, and one he doesn't like. Scout is cold, but slick with sweat, and despite that he keeps his hand on the boy's lower back and tries to be of some comfort.   
  
“Would you like me to call for Medic?” He doesn't know why he didn't say that sooner. There is somebody, even if it's one person, at the very least, who knows what they're doing. And usually, Spy considers himself to be a good person for a crisis, useful, even. But not this sort of crisis.   
  
It surprises him quite a bit when Scout's hand flies out and he shakes his head, furiously. “N-not yet. I ain't...I ain't ready.” He wants to ask but doesn't dare; ready for what? Not the pain, because Medic has anything from morphine to salicylic acid, and those would do the job. It's not the finality, either, because Scout has wanted this over for too long a time.   
  
Belatedly, Spy realises, Scout isn't ready to have to let go of his daughter just yet, even if it means getting to see her.   
  
Quietly, he swallows. “Are you scared?”   
  
Scout's eyes are black in the dim light. “Yeah.” He says, his voice even slighter. The boy sniffs, and coughs, done with the worst of the sobbing. Tears fall and ruin him, but they are truer, and soundless, wrought of pain that rots like a septic splinter. After another few minutes of desperate heaving, nearly bent in half with the pain, Scout manages to straighten back up. “I know...I know it's stupid.”   
  
“To be afraid?” Scout nods. “Why--”  
  
Swallowing, Scout looks at him sideways. “I've known this was comin' f-for a while, now.” He murmurs. “An' all that time, I figured it'd be nothin'. Things'd get back to n-normal, but...” His voice is lost in a splutter. Scout curls his arms around his stomach and hisses, curling even smaller, as if he no longer wants to exist. Spy gives him as many minutes as he needs, not brave enough to quite say anything. What can he say?   
  
It's in no way a science. And Spy has always been with lousy with his study, the only lessons he has here in these tender moments were from the man who left him like a bullet through the heart, piercing, ephemeral, left with all of these concepts like 'I'm sorry' and 'please, stay', none of which he has been able to use sincerely or replicate.   
  
He thinks Scout will forgive him this weakness when the boy cries out. “I want my life back!” he hisses, slumping forward, saved from a short fall by Spy's hand. The boy starts up crying again and they both know there's nothing to be done.   
  
“Soon.” Spy says, uselessly. “It's nearly over--”   
  
“It ain't.” He whimpers. “It ain't. Even after this, I'm gonna be alone.” Scout shakes his head. “I'll be alone, an' I won't even get to see her...”   
  
He never thought about it like that. Never. His definition of alone had more carnal and human, just as foolish as he is. How could Scout believe this is a lovestory when all he is left with is bitterness, for these sad men, all a thousand versions of himself, running for cover from honesty? How could he believe that they mattered more than his own happiness? More than his own--...  
  
Neither of them can bring themselves to say the word.   
  
“I'm sorry.” Spy says, after a while. As the light of day starts to rise a little, he can see things a little better. Scout looks so frail, even now. Pathetic, like he could be knocked out with a feather. His eyes are very dark, likely from his lack of sleep, and his lips are as humanly-blue as his eyes. Bits of blood are strident and tacky on his cheeks, but even more so on his hands, and on his thighs. The sight is so pitiful, he says it again. “I'm sorry.”   
  
Scout sniffs and looks at him, as if drowning. “Don't be,” He mumbles. “If it's anybody's fault, s'mine.”   
  
Spy doesn't even have the gall to disagree. It is true, to some extent, but made false by all the other extraneous influences –by Medic's sad eyes and Ma's words and Scout's own consuming fear of solitude. No, Spy can't say a word to it, and instead, slips his carton of cigarettes off of the nightstand.   
  
“Would you like another cigarette?”   
  
Scout's answer, whatever it is, is drowned under the agony of another contraction. He keeps his head bowed the entire time, gasping and gripping at the air for some kind of relief but finding none. It is difficult even to watch this usually bright, energetic boy awash with suffering and such torment. There's nothing he can do, either, no small, friendly favour to ease the pain.   
  
When the boy finally lifts his head, he's shaking it wildly. “Please--” He says.   
  
It's the 'please' Spy will remember until he dies, haunting him, the word on his breath, his heartbeat, and every silver droplet of sweat that stabs at his back in the night. How can he ever say no that somebody so helpless and pathetic?   
  
“Please--” Scout begs him. “It's too much.”   
  
And without a word, he stands, and makes for the Infirmary.    
  
-  
  
Medic takes fifteen seconds to answer his door. But when he sees Spy standing there, bloodied, open, breathless as a bastard, he doesn't take a second more.   
  
Curse his heart if he doesn't damn near lose it once he catches a glimpse of Scout, limping pathetically. He's wearing this enormous white button-up that drowns him, tight only around the stomach and stuck to his skin, some places seer with rosy fluid and others painted with livid blood. God, he looks so pale and breakable. He looks already defeated, sniveling, trembling, too agonized to ask.   
  
Some trails of blood line the insides of his thighs, marking tracks where less malicious hands would roam –nobody seems quite able to look Scout in the eyes now. It takes them some time to help him up to the infirmary, half-carrying the boy down better-known steps. But they do make it, eventually. Still in his nightgown, Medic sits him on the examination table and finds his nearest pair of gloves.   
  
In the chair, Spy lights another cigarette nervously. He doesn't take his eyes off of Scout.   
  
The boy is still sobbing, and whimpering away, rocking a little as if to provide himself with some scrap of comfort. Spy can't gleam it from the fear in Scout's eyes –or at least, not by much, and he wishes he knew what the hell to say. What must Scout be thinking? He's not just scared, no, he's never been that simple. Spy knows how homesick the boy is, and how bitter he is, and worst of all, how betrayed he is by his own sympathies.   
  
After a little while, the boy comes to lay on his side, still shivering. It seems to ease him, even the slightest. Before he seemed struck by lightning with every contraction, so fragile. The change of position does him some good, even if he is still trembling.   
  
It isn't long before Medic re-emerges, looking awfully tired. Still in his nightgown, he has a coffee in one hand, and what looks to be a small tank of gas under the other, with a long clear tube leading up to an oxygen mask. It seems to make Spy more wary than Scout, who is already staring bleakly at some corner of the room, swung open in his own hell.   
  
“Come on,” Medic sits the boy up very gently. It's strange to see: Spy has been with RED longer than the boy, and having never had preferential treatment, know that usually the man's bedside manner leaves something to be desired. The change is so drastic that it gives him pause, even at a time like this. “Have a drink when you feel up to it.” The man puts the cup on a side, and then hands Scout the oxygen mask. “If you are in particular pain, inhale with this.”   
  
The boy's voice is hardly recognisable. “W-what is it?” genuinely concerned, the boy forgets every obscenity, and all of his fight, left with nothing but apprehension. Thus, he sounds as a child again.   
  
“Nitrous oxide.” Medic tells him. “Laughing gas. You''ll feel better for some.” When addressing Spy, his voice turns colder, more urgent. He throws the words over his shoulder as a command. It reminds Spy of being very young again, his mother's hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing, and the bark of the  _germans_  outside, the ones like bloodhounds, of whom he carefully never speaks about.   
  
And all Medic says is. “Fetch a blanket, would you, kindly?”   
  
On his return, Scout is sitting up, inhaling the gas but never once laughing, breathing it in as if he can accept no other kind of air, as if it is sustaining him. Since waking, he hasn't seen Scout move a hand from his stomach, still holding some spark within him –some desire to fight, or to protect.   
  
They all warned him, and Scout has warned himself, too, not to become to attached or make promises on the things he loves. It will take a miracle to convince the boy into keeping his own word.   
  
Still, the gas is doing something for relief. He no longer doubles over in pain every few moments, but manages to sit up, and steady his breathing, just as Spy had suggested. His free hand is holding the coffee, but never moving it from that position. When Spy drapes the blanket across his shoulders, he's incredibly grateful.   
  
“Are you feeling better?” Spy asks him, still nervous, lighting another cigarette. He'll have to start a whole new carton very soon, and he has only been awake for just over an hour. Scout nods, childishly, and sucks down some nitrous oxide.   
  
“My legs feel heavy.” He murmurs. “An' it still hurts.”   
  
Without a working knowledge of anaesthetic, is perplexes Spy to hear anything like that. “'urts?”   
  
Scout shrugs. There are sparks in his nervous system, or so it feels, and he feels a few tingles running through his extremities. It's very odd, and not particularly enduring. It doesn't hold his attention for very long. “It still feels sorta tight every couple a' minutes, like bein' slashed.” He yawns, and makes a line across his midriff to demonstrate. “An' she's kickin' like a madman.”  
  
Every few minutes, his eyes snap shut and he goes very stiff, but it isn't nearly as bad as before. They –that is, Spy in his chair, and Medic, throwing glances over his shoulder, keep eyes on him. Spy keeps on smoking, never moving from the chair, letting the boy be for now. Medic appears to be setting up his own equipment, sterile needles and selections of jars, scalpels, surgical stitches. It's menacing enough until Scout clears his throat.   
  
“What's that for?” his voice is still minuscule, and very hoarse. A trembling finger is pointing to the surgical thread. Suddenly, all eyes are on Scout, and it's clear, even if it's obvious, that he isn't ready. How could he possibly prepare for this, though?   
  
It’s clear, though, that he does have a safe base to fall back on. Even on such little sleep and patience, Medic’s hands never tremble, and his mind does not race at a speed as to miss things. When it comes to Scout, he is especially attentive. “To stitch up the initial incision.”   
  
The boy's mouth hangs open. “An'...an' will it hurt?”   
  
“Not a bit, spatzi.” Spy does not know enough german to translate it properly, but knows that it's supposed to be comforting, or endearing. If so, then why does Scout look so damn terrified? Still half-lying on his side, and still trembling, even beneath the blanket, his eyes pale in horror. “Not a bit. You'll have had a clonidine epidural by that time.”   
  
Scout's eyes squeeze shut again and he curls in some more, taking great gulps of the gas, but still going taught and whimpering, even if it isn't so awful as before. It takes few minutes before he's u to speaking, and when he does, he looks even paler, his eyes glistening. “Will that hurt?” His voice is stretched. “The clonidine--”  
  
Medic looks at him, tiredly. “Perhaps a little. It should not be anything too unpleasant. You're in the worst of it.” When Scout continues to look unconvinced, lifting the oxygen mask up a little further from his face and biting his lip, Medic sighs. “Are you scared?”   
  
It takes an eternity for Scout to nod. But he does.   
  
“You're in safe hands.” He is assured. “I wouldn't dream of operating if I didn't know what exactly it was I was doing. You're lucky. Many do not get this luxury.”   
  
Scout keeps on staring at him, though. He glances at Spy, as if to check that the man is still present, before speaking. “Lucky.” his words sound empty. “Everybody's tellin' me how lucky I am. Truth is, everythin' I touch turns to shit--”   
  
In a second,Scout's arms tense around himself and he falls onto his side, forgetting about the nitrous oxide and instead about the intensity of his own pain, crying out, his eyes shut to the world as if there's no visible hope. He doesn't move at all, but to get in some staggered air, still guttering as if gassed by something more deadly, that killed better men in his stead.    
  
The boy’s face goes flush with colour, skipping a strident red and going straight to some awul, asphyxiation-purple. For a second, they’re all caught up in just looking, but react eventually, staggered by the onslaught of panic. Medic comes to him with his steady hands. Scout doesn’t fight him at all –no, quite the opposite. In the man’s arms, he’s completely boneless reeling for relief, and oxygen. His hands grab at the air for whatever he’s being offered.   
  
“I suppose there is nothing to wait for.” Medic says, quietly. He tries to sit Scout up. It isn’t too difficult: Scout is still small, and is relatively light, despite the lifelessness in his body. When the words register, though, the task becomes monumentally easy because Scout sits right up and pales, eyes finding Medic’s in an instant.   
  
“No--” The boy flounders. “No, you ain’t gonna...not yet.” He puts a hand on Medic’s shoulder, but when he finds no consolation, looks for Spy, for the last window, breathing a slice of opportunity. It isn’t just fear that motivates him, but sickness, a terrible nausea at the thought alone of anybody taking a knife to him, splitting the tight skin with a scalpel and leaving a neat trail of blood--...it makes him very faint.   
  
But Spy shakes his head to Scout, that last window snapping shut, and leaving him leaning hard on Medic, shivering violently. The man tries to comfort him. “What should I wait for?” He says, softly. “It’ll put you out of pain. You won’t feel a thing. And the procedure is relatively quick.”   
  
Scout whimpers, and looks about for an escape route, a narrow but effective way to slip out of this. With everything else, he’s slept his way out with anybody willing to lie down. He’s known this was coming, he’s had months of haunted sleep, and nights he’s cried so hard the stars fell into the ocean and he awoke with body bags under his eyes. Scout knows he has every right to be scared, and to be conflicted.   
  
This should be painless. It should be. But he doesn’t want things to proceed –he doesn’t want to take Medic at his word and awake with the dryness of anaesthetic on his tongue and Danny at the door, pounding on it, screaming ‘ _we had a deal’_...he doesn’t want to give away his daughter anymore than an animal in a trap wants to chew off it’s own leg, but like that animal, he must.   
  
It will be worse if she’s beautiful. It will be all the more horrifying if she’d be beautiful and pale, with yellow hair and his eyes, the way she was in his nightmares, and sometimes, his dreams. Scout doesn’t know what he’ll do if she looks like an ‘elizabeth’. What then, after she’s gone? What the hell will his normal look like then? What if he never gets to hear her voice: not just first words but first songs, and laughter?   
  
“Of course it’s gonna hurt!” He hisses. A horrible numbness is filling him, one that will break him over time, but it’s enough to cease his crying, leaving him scowling. “It’s gonna hurt, an’ she’s gonna--...”   
  
Medic looks at him, as if for a moment in some kind of shared agony. And he probably knows this hell, has probably picked it’s locked door a thousand times. It’s of little comfort to hear him say. “These girls we love do not need our protection.” Very softly, and quietly, like an epitaph or a eulogy. “Come on.”   
  
Scout nods. He knows where reason lies, he does, even if he’s reluctant to follow it.   
  
Again, Medic says, “Come on,” And sits the boy up properly. “Try to keep breathing. We’ll clean you up before we do anything else.”   
  
That, at least, is of some comfort.   
  
-  
  
The operating starts where Scout can see it. Eager to have him look away, Spy clasps tight on the boy’s hand and does some talking, trying to steal his attention. At some indeterminate time, Miss Pauling arrives, scrubbed down but not assisting. She doesn’t say a word, but keeps her eyes at the level of Scout’s.   
  
When spoken to, Scout answers him very slowly, and very drowsily, but continues to watch anyway. Medic has just made his first incision when Spy speaks, his voice very calm and gentle, washing in like water, steaming over to him via that old barnacled Atlanic cable. Scout could drown.   
  
“Are you in pain?” He asks, at the boy’s intense frown, and his silence. His breathing still gets a little tighter, now and then, but otherwise can’t feel a thing. He says so.   
  
“Naw, it don’t hurt..” Murmuring, his voice shimmers and eddies in the still water of the air. He remembers once, as a child, breaking his wrist or hand –he doesn’t remember, he was very young, and having to stay the night in hospital. For all of the fear he’d felt, he felt sort of peaceful, too, assured that the morning would persist in coming.   
  
Even now, he knows, the sun will rise and it will pass.   
  
As if to keep him from watching, though it won’t, Spy presses on. “Are you afraid?”   
  
And maybe it’s because Miss Pauling is over him like an angel, with eyes that speak of Poseidon or perhaps it’s because he is no longer breathless with agony, but Scout manages to shake his head. He yawns. “I’m awright.” He drowses. “It’ll be awright.”   
  
He yawns again, terribly affected, not just by the strange taste from a joyous arrangement of the drugs that have been on his tongue but from the fatigue. Really, he is tired, and has had the energy sapped from him with all of this panic. All Scout wants to do is sleep, and forget it all. And wake up a year earlier, young and fierce and free, a boy. If this is what it means to be an adult, then he wants to put his fingers in his ears and scream, just like a child. If this is what it means to be a hero, then he wonders why he feels so damn yellow.   
  
At his hand again, Spy strokes him. The man’s form appears to shiny something terrible, and everything looks soft. He feels at peace, as if bathing, the air cool but temperate, sustaining him like water without even trying.   
  
Spy looks much younger, as if some youthening reflection, some kinder man. He is looking towards the other end of the room, towards Medic, his lips slightly parted as if to house an invisible cigarette, the sadness in his eyes bluer than the south pacific. Maybe it’s the weight of the drug, then one that cuts off his feeling below the ribcage completely, but he realises after a moment that he’s mumbling, out loud, about Spy.   
  
The giveaway is the man’s eyes flicking to him, worried, wanting. “What is it?” Spy asks him.   
  
“Missed --miss your face. When it’s gone.” He struggles immensely with those words, and tries to reach up, despite his weakness, and feel the softness of the man’s skin, and the warmth, there and real and feasible. God, spy seems a thousand miles away, and they didn’t call him, didn’t call him at all.   
  
He presses against Scout;s hand and rejects the touch as one does some kind of awful seaweed –off, off, eely tentacle! –there is _nothing_ between them.   
  
“Gone?” The man questions him. His voice is so steady, like a metre in a poem, like the tide on a clear night. It is complimented, harmonised, by a softer voice, the moon to the wandering bark, even softer, somehow, not tied to Scout by any means but guiding him, sentient, salient as a flare.   
  
“I think--” She –Miss Pauling- speaks at last, and only above a whisper, not looking at Scout. She blinks, and he misses her eyes, piercing and faintly warm, and if one could travel the millions of light-years that exist between her and anybody else, they would know what intensity and thermonuclear energy burns in them. “I think he means your mask.”   
  
Spy smiles at that. He does, eyes glistening. “Oh, cher--” the words change suddenly when he sees Scout’s eyes slipping shut, into a more restful peace. “Non, amour, keep your eyes open. Can you do this for me?” He lifts Scout’s face towards him, and they look at eachother. The boy’s eyes are heavy and tired –Jesus Christ, he’s so tired. “Keep your eyes open for me.”   
  
He keeps them open, but blinks, contentedly, and smiles up at him. “It’ll be awright.” Scout nods to himself, as if trying to assure somebody who is seemingly not present. His eyes wander to the other, to Miss Pauling, who looks back at him, her eyes so concerned –he has never seen her like this. So affected, caught up in something, more invested than by mere obligation. “Miss P?”   
  
She nods, very passively, and takes his other hand, wary of where his drip is attached. If she pressed on the drip, he’d forgive her. Hell, if she asked for his eyes, he’d hand them over. “Y’look like an—“ He yawns again, sleepily, and looks up at her. “Like an angel, you know.”   
  
“Sshh.” Not unkindly, she tries to quiet him. Her eyes wander, first to Spy, who is still smiling, but something bitter, and then to Medic, who Scout could see if he were to sit up a little. “You’re delirious.” She tells him, but smiles as if taking the compliment. Unlike Spy’s, her grip on his hand is not tight, and nervous, it does not imply a thousand things and sting like success does, but is soothing.   
  
Long fingers stroke in circles as if Scout is some great beast she is trying to tame. In reality, he is a sinking ship on white sheets. She holds his hand and tries to remember open highway.   
  
Scout tells her. “You’re gorgeous.”   
  
His eyes slip shut. He forgets her name, for a bit, and when she squeezes his hand to prompt him back to open-eyed consciousness, he looks at her and tells her. “You’re gorgeous,” again.   
  
He’s halfway too dreaming, too. Thinking about days that are yet to come –how Jeb promised him they’d go mining for diamonds, or the time Jeb visited the Santa Cruz redwood two days before the forest fire there. The flames were thick enough to paint the nightly news a different shade of orange and his mother pointed at the celluloid flames, reminding them all how close the boy was, and how his brothers repeated an ad, line-for-line, writing down the number for a hi-fi phono and saving it for later.   
  
He thinks about finding his Ma exhausted in the kitchen, offering to help her and allowing her to say ‘no’...it is only now he understand why people need time to slice and dice the things they can.   
  
What wakes him, quite suddenly, is not another tight squeeze from an Angel’s hand or a sharp, disorientating tug on some Atlantic cable, but instead, a sharp, tight cry that strikes him like a lightning storm in the middle of an ocean. He tries to sit himself up, a little, with help, leaning hard on his elbows, and there, in front of him is a small child covered in blood.   
  
Scout looks at her and knows –this girl is going to crush him like a small bug, her goodbye will feel like explosives.   
  
There aren’t any words for the moment. None that will do, and he knows that none exist to justify speech, so he swallows down an enormous sob and asks for her. His girl. His Moira.   
  
It doesn’t matter that she is cold, or tacky with blood by any means at all when Medic lays her, with great care and affection on Scout’s bare chest. The feeling eases his homesickness, and his fears and all of his cloudiest thoughts, shaking them into absolution until his heartbeat sounds like her first name. There’s nothing  Scout can do. His hands tremble when he dares to raise one, ghosting over his tiny spine lightly, as if to test that she’s really there.   
  
The others have retreated quite a bit. They give him a moment, and rightly so. Scout is still a little delirious, and silent. He’s sort of crying, too, but not like before. He makes no sound, and they just happen to fall. Still settling, the cries dissolve into whimpers after a while. Not that he minds them, for they are a testament screaming that she is alive. In all of his dreams, he could not have expected to feel so –so much energy, and fondness, already.   
  
It has not been a minute, and Scout hopes never to have her out of his sight.   
  
They have to take her, though, they do, even for a short while. For both of their sakes, and Scout can already hear Danny breaking down his door, screaming at him ‘ _open this door, goddammnit!...we had a deal, Scout’ ._ Is it too late to change things? Is it too late to go back?   
  
He doesn’t lay down again, not properly, until they hand her back, cut, alive, clean and quiet. She’s still cold, but Scout doesn’t mind it. Medic is still operating, of course, so he remains  on his back, eyes slipping shut and surrendering to sleep’s mercy, only when Moira is warm and safe, protected from an entire world of horrors by his hand.   
  
-  
  
He wakes many hours later. Many.   
  
His legs are still incredibly heavy, but responsive. He must have slept the entire day away. Moira has done much the same, still sprawled on his skin, under his hand. It’s worse to have her every bit as beautiful as he’d imagined, short strands of wheaty, angelic hair and eyes bluer than mercy, than his Ma’s on a cloudy day.   
  
What wakes hi, though, is a weight on the bed besides him, and he rouses quiet quickly, turning his body away from the intrusion and giving it a moment only after checking her so signs of –well, to assert the feeling of her there. It is no worldly horror or intrusion. On the edge of the bed, the Australian sits, very tired, patient and smiling, with a hand on Scout’s shoulder.   
  
It’s alright, kid.” He says, quietly. “It’s only me.”   
  
When Sniper turns his face towards the light, Scout catches a glimpse of these angry red scratches on his face. On in particular runs down through his brow all the way to the bridge of his nose. The injuries are not particularly fresh, perhaps a few days old, but look particularly nasty. Scout reaches out his free arm and takes the man’s chin.   
  
“What’d ya do?” He presses. The man pulls back from his grasp.   
  
“Don’t make a fuss, it’s nothin’.” But Scout is more determined, and grabs the man’s chin, pulling his face forward, into the light, and inspecting it. “I just had an accident on the horse.” It g oes very quiet, and Scout lets him be, turning slightly more towards him, but still keeping one arm locked into place.   
  
They can’t talk about the weather forever, but Sniper is the first to say it.   
  
“She’s a beaut’.” He says, leaning down as if to get a better look. Scout gives him some semblance of a smile.   
  
“I know.” He says instead.   
  
Sniper is close enough that he could slip an arm around Scout, and the boy could get some more rest and feel just as safe and loved. Part of him wants to light the man on fire for all of the help he’s been, for all of the time he’s still had Spy’s heart and wasted it. But that is not his fight. So he leans his head against the man’s chest, right above his heart, and sighs. “I’m tired.”   
  
Sniper strokes his hair, not out of lust or to be platonic, but because he knows Scout needs it. “you did a good thing, kid.” The man says. “And it’s all over now. You can have a rest.”   
  
but the thing is –it’s not all over. It really isn’t, though most of the work is done. Scout will be paralysed by love, and bitterness and distance for the rest of his life. It will never be over, and Sniper’s blindness to this leave shim dissatisfied, realising for the first time, Sniper never could have saved him.   
  
The man says again, as Scout is falling asleep. “It’s all over.”   
  
Really, he’s a fool. It’s only now Scout knows how treacherous it was to believe that he was anything more than that.


	26. XXVI

Scout finds it hard to wake.

Truth be told, he doesn't want to face the day. It's another set of hours closer to the inevitable, to the rest of his life, and while that should be inspiring…it terrifies him. But he doesn't have the means to rise above it, or some kind of plan, so he rises anyway, with enough grit for the morning alone, willing to wait for the world, or at least, his own circumstance to change.

They don't immediately, so he turns onto his back, feeling quite wonderful. Maybe it's that he's woken when it's light, and it's nice enough to see sunlight, even if it's cold. It takes him many moments –longer than it should, to notice the steady and careful stream focused on him from the medigun. He wonders if it's necessary, but knows better than to doubt it.

The air is still and quiet. The fluidity of his memories sharpens, and the word is in crisp, clear sense-making focus. Next to him, still silent as he's ever known her, Moira is sprawled out in the space he hadn't been lying. Against the vast desert of expansive sheets, she looks so much smaller, and more insignificant. A detail, an afterthought. Yet, at the same time, enormous, too. Much bigger than the concept he had her assigned just days before.

That's the trouble with concepts. They're never an adequate size, or clarity, and they miss out so many details.

After a while, he stands up, with a shockingly relative ease, straightening out his back, standing full and proudly for the first time in many months. It isn't that Scout is particularly grand or tall, but to see the world as he used to, that inch or so higher than before, does make all the difference.

The rest follows easily, and he manages a stroll –Jesus, how long has it been since he has been able to just goddamn stroll? There's a mirror across the room, and he walks over to it, leisurely.

Before he reaches his reflection, though, Scout pauses. He wonders if it will matter what he sees. There are two edges in the sword of seeing a ghost, seeing who he was, but just as many fault lines on the ground of who he is. He takes the last few steps, though, not out of vanity, but purely out of curiosity. He thinks, maybe, the man in the mirror will give him some idea of how he is doing.

Is it ever that simple?

The first thing to catch Scout's attention, the one that caters to all of those fears he had, is the neat slice at the bottom of his stomach, closed by Medic's engineering faster than time could dream, but held fast just in case with surgical staples. It's every part as gruesome as he figured, but satisfying, too, in some small way.

A tentative finger runs over the incision –soon to be a scar. His eyes travel higher, over skin that hasn't seen the sun. His skin has forgotten Teufort's summer in all of it's stridency, fading like a polaroid to a sad off-white. There are, much to his surprise, no signs of the jagged and ugly marks up his sides as there were before. It's hard to believe, and somehow even more baffling as he checks, with his hands.

He certainly doesn't look the same. Boy, what he used to be. Scout had never once thought of himself as strong, not next to men like Heavy, but he  _had_  been. Especially compared to what faces him, softer legs and even softer arms, no hint of definition or use.

Maybe it's the light, too, but his hair is longer and –and greyer, somehow. He swears it was once this attractive dark blonde or so, where now, it looks duller, and just as silver as his breath is. The reflection looks world-weary, certainly. But the world has shifted so much, and will still. Is he foolish to hold out hope?

It's the quietest kind of crisis he's ever had. On the table, across, somebody has brought down some clothes. Not the jersey Scout wanted, but old, washed clothes that were his uniform. It feels nice to dress, sure, to put armour to his vulnerabilities but finds even just the shirt stifling, and a little tight.

He feels smaller, but none of his clothes fit. His wallet is overflowing with cash and cards and receipts –no photographs or keepsakes, but he's working on that.

His reflection looks less and less like himself the more he stares –no trace of home on him, not trace of Fenway, Rex Sox, spitting off bridges –no sign of asphalt, dirt track, having something to cry about. At home, he used to fit in, learned how to talk out of the side of his mouth and how to hold a lean while he was waiting.

Scout waits too much here. He's got nothing to say, so suddenly.

"Up, so early?"

Caught, he turns, as if afraid, only to find his fear fall away at the sight of Medic. He seemed so salient and steady just yesterday. He looks tired, now, but not in the same way Scout is. Their suffering is by no means alike. The way Medic is looking at him reminds Scout of girls on the subway, secretaries who only ever wore heels. The clackers, he called them, had blisters but still smiled serenely.

"I suppose," The man continues, patiently. "You never were the most restful patient."

Scout laughs at that, quietly. "I don't see what I got to be restin' for." Because he doesn't. It feels to him that there is nothing left. After waiting so long, for what feels like most of his life, on what was yesterday, time is robbed of it's value.

He goes to sit back down on the edge of the bed, narrow as it is. He doesn't disturb his girl sleeping. Firstly, because he doesn't want to seem foolish to Medic –to seem attached in the least. Partly, though, is because of the serenity in her expression, sprawled and languid. Scout has watched a fair few people sleeping, usually next to him, and it isn't especially nice, usually. Not like this.

After a partial silence, Medic sits, too, and that's the only warning Scout really gets. "You must be glad to see your old uniform."

Scout looks at his feet. He shrugs "Yeah, I guess I am." It won't do to be like this: not to Medic. Even if he knows it's going to hurt, and the kind of fall he's got coming might not be one he recovers from, it doesn't do to sound so despondent. Scout amends his statement. "Certainly I do." He manages. "It'll be—…"

Medic looks up, beautiful, and cut into a thousand piece. Jesus, this man knows suffering, and he can see through Scout, but doesn't say anything. In one glance, it's clear Scout might have hell to pay, or the devil on his back, but Medic trusts him to shake it off.

"Scout, my…mein junge."

The man's voice is glass, trembling, threatening to shatter. "I have wanted to speak to you for a very long time."

Scout tries to give the man his time. Space enough to get the piece out, but it doesn't come very fast, and he is wary of every word that might slip. "Doc—" He murmurs.

"I'm sorry." The man says, quietly. "I know exactly what it is I want to say with you gone."

Scout knows what the man will say. He does, and even still, he isn't ready for it. He won't be ready if the man cries. That's the worst thing Medic could do –fall to pieces and let Scout know how much he has wasted, and how good the man was to him. Treated him with such care. How did Scout dare give him anything less than his best?

But, instead, he just nods. "I realise I ain't very easy to talk to. I know that."

It makes Medic smile, faintly, a light in his eyes glowing faintly. The last flickers of hands clutched around what was 'them', letting go. Truth be told, Scout never was 'his'. Never was anybody's, and that's the trouble. To whom does he assign himself? What can Medic do with a boy that refuses to be his?

Eventually, though, Medic finds those missing words, scrambling for them as if they are diamonds.

"I don't—" He's having such trouble. It's only, through pained deliberation that he manages the sentence. "I don't wish to be a substitute anymore."

Scout is paralysed by that. The guilt, all of it that has been building up, this great wave swelling behind the walls of Medic's tolerance and kindness will finally drown him. The man with his finger in the dam is gone, now. Flooding is inevitable.

"You are not obliged to humour me. Or to oblige me. You might—…"The man shakes his head and laughs desperately, sadly. "You might think that it's a kindness, but it isn't. You leave me –always, spatzi, with such hopes. I know it's foolish, but –but I am foolish. You make me foolish."

Scout's throat is dry. He nods.

"I deserve to have my faith rewarded. Or, at least, given some kind of gravedressing. This -this string of men you wish to have chasing after you –it is poisonous."

There, he has to interject. "I never wanted—…" But with a single glance, the words are stolen from him. Abducted by the wind.

"I didn't ask you what you wanted." It isn't unkind, but he's firm about it, even if his voice is shaking. "Do you suppose I want you to leave me before morning? Do you suppose –suppose that Spy wanted you to have that child?"

He looks at his feet. At his girl, his only doll, Moira, and how peaceful she is. And it isn't the world he wanted her to stay sleeping to –it is to men like him. So Scout shrugs. "I didn't mean to hurt anybody…" He whimpers.

Medic shakes his head. "I know you didn't. But you did." He coses his eyes, for just a second, to save himself the mortification of tears, and sighs. "I love you, Scout. I do."

Scout swallows down a pin-hole throat. "I can't help how you feel, Doc. I never meant for you to feel like that."

"You can help it! You can, by not…not knocking on my door and asking to sleep with me. By not calling me up, when you fly out on whims."

Scout is scared by that. He flinches, wounded, and becomes very defensive. "You never had to say yes. You never had to answer that goddamned—"

Medic gives him a very cold look. One trembling with the horrors of love. It is not a beautiful, delicate thing, it is the lethal injection, the last straw, the parting blow.

Slowly, as if somehow calm, he swallows again and fixes his sad eyes onto Scout. "Every time I think I have finally stopped wanting you. But it never goes." He looks about desperately. "What is it you love? Sniper?"

Scout shakes his head. "No." He says, with such conviction. But his eyes are settling on Moira, trying to resist the urge to reach out an confirm she's really there, and it's caught on.

"Try to understand." Medic pleads with him. "Is there anything you would not do for your daughter?" Scout can't say anything, so Medic does the talking. "You would give her away for her sake, no matter how much it hurts you. What if she would not go?"

He shivers. "It ain't the same." his voice is very still. "It ain't even remotely similar."

There is another pause. Medic looks so damn pained, trying to explain it. He looks at Scout, sadly, and then at his girl. "You would miss her, even if she was in the next room. Just as you would if she was a thousand miles away."

"Don't be cryptic, Doc."

"You must realise that keeping your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you, any less than keeping your daughter far away will not stop you from missing her." His breathing shakes. "It clings to you like a disease."

It's so true, and cuts so honestly and sharply that Scout nods to him. For some reason, he cannot help but think about Medic's hands around his throat, crushing the air from his lungs, burning him up. So he asks. "When you…when you strangled me." There is no way of putting it that would be graceful. The word makes Medic's eyes drop like an atom bomb. "You said something, in German. What did you say?"

For a while, the man is silent. His voice is rusty when he does speak. "I said…that there are two kinds of boy. Obedient, and foolish." The man swallows. "I said that only one was welcome."

Scout goes to him. Goes to him like a lazy sunset, on his knees before the man in the chair and is begged by Medic, eyes full of thunder that could easily turn to tears. "Promise me."

"I'll stay. I'll stay if you want me to-" Scout tries a smile, and that's the worst thing he could do. Medic shakes his head, violently, and takes one of the boy's small, soft hands.

"No." He says again, with such strength. "No. That is not what I am asking from you." He takes the boy's hand and gives it a strong squeeze. "You mustn't stay. You should not even offer. "

Scout tries to be of some encouragement. Nodding like some kind of mania. "I won't come. I won't call you. I can do that, Doc. I'll do that."

Medic smiles at him. Shakes his head like he doesn't believe it, but smiles all the same. "We will always be in close proximity –that is a promise you simply cannot keep. Just promise me -that if it comes to it-...you will not let me take you back."

Scout dips his head. "It won't come to that. It won't, Doc, alright?"

the man smiles again, like some beautiful injury, and stands, shakily. He goes over to his desk to fetch or sort something. Not that he's busy, but that he needs to keep himself so. The silence stretches out like the depth of an entire ocean and Scout realises there's something he owes the man, at least.

"Thankyou." He says, so very quietly, like treason from his lips. It stops Medic right quick, has the man looking at him, head cocked, so confused, all of a sudden.

"For what, liebe?"

It isn't easy to say. Honestly, it's some embarrassing admission to say aloud that some nights, he was Scout's only light, his only friend. That he is the best man Scout knows, the only good one there is. A white knight quietly crossing the board, doing no injury,l and Scout wishes him horses and castles, he really does.

Medic presses him at the silence. "For what?" So he must carry on.

"You were good to me, Doc." He says. "An' without you, I wouldn't have her." Scrubbing his face, he sighs. "I jus' really hope you're happy, now that you're chosin' this."

Struck, and open and honest in ways Scout will fathom somebody, Medic smiles. "I hope so, too." The words linger, though, incomplete, and Medic looks as if he is about to share a secret. "Heavy –he-"

"I know." Scout says. And he does. He always did. Every single half-glance, and cheerful conversation, every game of chess that was too personal, every 'how are you?'. They all knew, but it has never been Scout's place to say. He thinks, if two people would be happy with one another, content for a folly, for some kind of love, it would be them. So he says. "You guys'll be hopeless for eachother."

This is the first time he's really thought about Medic's happiness. What the man wants from life. It's a terrible thing to realise, but it's true. The man can look out for himself now, can look out for his own interests. Scout is no longer his to keep.

Their eyes meet. Honestly? This will not break Scout. This will not leave him suffering. Scout knows he will recover, and continue, because if this year has proven anything, it's that he is, and human beings are, by their nature, intrepid. They carry on. But he knows just as well that this will leave him incomplete, and that the incompletion will gnaw at him, over years and months. Time will ache him when this parting cannot.

All Medic says is. "I think she is stirring." He goes, and makes it to the door, before Scout attends to one last thing.

"Wait, Doc-..." His voice is soft with calm. It isn't urgent, but it presses him. "Y'know what you said, about there bein' two kinds'a boy? An obedient one or a foolish one?"

Medic nods.

"Which one am I?"

Medic does not condescend to him. He couldn't. The words are true, though. Maybe this is their last moment together, and maybe this is the right thing for both of them, but Medic cannot say that is how he feels. It wounds him, but he smiles again anyway because he needs to. "Do you really think you are a boy anymore, Scout?"

With just a question, he leaves Scout silent.

* * *

It starts to hail later.

The ice hits the windows so hard that Scout thinks they might well shatter. It's dark for the afternoon, a rank of grey cloud over the sky. He hasn't had the courage to see the rest of them yet, but stays inside, playing with the phone number in his hand. The paper is getting flimsier and more yellow as he manipulates it.

Scout can't call him. He can't call him at all. It's as if he's been hollowed out, his insides gnawed away completely by some guilty mouse, and he lacks anything at all needed to lift the receiver.

What's left of him is occupied entirely by his girl. Scout hasn't known himself to be cautious on the occasion he has known himself in the least, but his hands tremble even near her. Moira is too breakable, and he has left too much destruction behind him to possibly trust himself even in loving her. The smallest of his fingers hovers over the corner of her mouth, and it contents her to no end to suck on it.

Even if she's away, Scout can always ask for her. He thinks of her at Danny's place, balancing on the wooden stool on the kitchen to reach the telephone, and telling him something, anything. About how she did on her spelling tests or how she punched a boy. She has Weiss eyes, and that usually comes with a bloodyminded spirit, whimsical but passionate.

He tires to memorise her as she is. The smallest details included. What Scout wants most of all is some kind of preservation. In Boston, he remembers how every school trip was to the same museum, and how comforting but haunting it was to see the same exhibit at five, and then at fifteen. It makes him wish he could keep some of his own memories in a glass case, and visit them exactly as they are. It makes him wish time did not rot everything. Even hope.

A voice at the door shocks him like a fistful of lightning, and he turns, made nervous.

"What?"

It's only Miss Pauling. Only. She isn't very tall at all, and her voice is the small, quiet kind, and those things together make her somehow even more terrifying. Even now she doesn't have that kindness Scout has seen, but the kind of steely, bleak look that does a poor job or preparing him for some news.

She pushes off the arch of the door and comes in to his room, not quite daring to sit. She looks at Scout's mouth when she speaks.

"I said, it's reassuring to see you recovering." He isn't recovering. Not yet, but Scout nods all the same.

"I'll let you know when I start." He says, quietly, and then leans back, slightly, his eyes on Moira, still trying to copy down every detail, still trying to put her in one of those glass cases. It's futile, he knows, but this moment will be gone soon, and he will have no means of getting it back.

The hand on his shoulder worries him, and he knows he's done for when she swallows, and looks at Moira when she speaks. "I don't know how to phrase this, Scout." She gets out, slowly. "We're moving base in three days. She should be gone by then."

Three days? He thought he could get a little longer, if he didn't call, if he pleaded. If he was quiet about it, and he has been. He will not be able to see her go. He will not bear it. Her hand goes to move to his upper-arm in some gesture of comfort but he clamps down on her wrist and holds it away from him.

"An' what if she ain't?" He says, very quietly. In the way her voice sounds, so tiny, and yet, so deadly, like a drop of blood in a shark tank. His grip is hard, but clumsy, and with a worrisome practise she turns her arm sideways and elbows out his grasp. There isn't any more sympathy in her eyes now.

"If you wish to resign, by all means, do." She says. Not a bit of mastery or control has been sapped from her voice. If anything, it sounds stronger. "But don't for a moment believe that I am here to negotiate with you, Mister Weiss." The woman is iron, heavy, and strong, and cold. It doesn't lessen his anger, but does caution him, and slow the words that are ready to simpler thoughts,

"You don't understand." he says.

"I wasn't sent her to understand you. I was sent to give you notice. This is  _not_  a personal visit." It's only then she looks at him, so goddamn injured like he's the one behind the trigger, the ghost she swore off, with good manners and a taste for light beer. "And just so that we're  _clear_ , if you lay a hand on me again,  _you will lose it_."

Scout always gets so caught up in his own terrors and mercies. He forgets, just as he forgot about Miss Pauling, and all the unwelcome hands she must have had on her. It isn't his intention to be malicious, because she can be warm and lucid and lovely, if only one remembers to earn it. As she stands, he thinks about grabbing her back, but fears for her more than his own hands.

Thus, as a kindness, he finds his voice. "Miss P-"

She tries to master it, but her injury is clear. Her eyes betray her heart.

It's the first time she gives him some kind of softness. Just like he remembers her, the salient above him, the infirmary light caught above her head like a milky halo and she had been divine in all ways but one. Even now, beneath the iron is a layer of silver, she is beautiful and fragile and human –just like medic, and his sad eyes. Scout has never once suspected, in truth, that he has been surrounded by these complex beings, and not just sad men with their desires. No, she is as human as him, and the rest of them, and her blood says so too.

"I don't want to forget her."

It can't be real when Miss Pauling leans forward, and puts her hands on his shoulders, one moving up slowly to one of his cheeks so tenderly that it's as if proving just how human she can be. There is blood and flesh and a pulse of hers, on his skin, and she looks at him so sincerely, like a secret. Her voice is kind, and life-giving.

"Remember her. Remember  _this_ , Scout. It'll be gone soon. Maybe you can."

Her other hand moves, and in just a moment, she's handing him the receiver. It is weightless now. After all, he's only going to remember when the time has passed, only going to cry when she's gone. Only going to truly know what this means to him when she's gone.

Without a word, she goes.

* * *

It is said, sometimes, that Scout always gets what he wants.

At least, by some. The same that comes knocking at his door when Scout doesn't join them for dinner, or make any kind of appearance at all. He doesn't care for anything. He can't find the energy. The only thing he can seem to do is smoke most of his cigarettes, and he does.

Really, he knows he should be taking a shower, or doing something worthwhile, but he can't. She'll be gone soon, and it feels like everything he's ever put in the ground is being wrenched from the earth before it could even grow.

But there Is still a polite and quiet knocking on his door, and he knows he has to answer it. Scout has to do many things he doesn't like. Ma used to liken life to a strange restaurant where odd waiters brought you food you didn't order, and mostly didn't want. Whatever Scout's being sold here: he isn't buying.

Eventually, he gets up from his bed and unlocks the door, bringing it open and going to lay back down. He doesn't bother looking to see who it is, and goes straight to lying down once more. He feels the bed dip a little in the middle and realises his company is sitting right by him.

"You 'aven't seen sunlight in days. Are you quite alright?"

He shrugs into the sheets, unwilling to be pulled into a conversation. He doesn't want to talk. A brave hand settles on his shoulder, bold as love, and in the easy touch you can tell that Spy means it truly, and well. If only he meant it on some better occasion.

"I don't wanna talk." He grumbles. The hand on his shoulder pauses, and Spy sighs.

"Would you like to smoke?"

Scout shakes his head.

"Per'aps you would like to-"

He sits up, slowly, and nudges out of the man's touch. "Look," Grumbling, he sighs. "I _don't_  wanna talk. I told you that already."

Spy just laughs at him. He shakes his head like he's heard an old joke, and lights a cigarette. It's clear he isn't going anywhere soon. Instead, he stretches out and looks over Scout, to his girl, with a distant look in his eyes. He doesn't even properly lift his hand before Scout starts on him.

"I don't want you touchin' her, either. Sit still an' smoke."

Spy looks at him, no longer distant, or amused, but generally curious. There's that openness to his face that's rare, but Scout recognises it. It scares him a little. He's not sure he has the stamina for honesty. The man looks at him hard and opens his mouth just a little, murmuring something.

"What?" Scout swallows. "Speak up, for Chrissake."

"I asked you what it is you want." Spy repeats himself awfully slowly. "You 'ave told me all the things you do not want. So, then, what is it you want?"

Scout hears him clearly, but doesn't respond at all, because he is at a genuine loss of things to say. Truth be told, he doesn't exactly know. He wants his life back, but he want his daughter. He wants to stay at RED just as much as he wants to keep her, and wants out of the entire thing, too. And he wants Spy just as much as he knows he needs to be on his own. It isn't so simple anymore.

He turns on his side and shrugs to the wall. Spy smiles like he's won something.

"You cannot even think of one thing that you would like?"

Scout doesn't like that. He sits up, and folds his arms. "Sure, I can. Obviously I can."

"I 'aven't seen you manage to-"

Stuck, he tries to squirm away from the question. "Keep your goddamn voice down, would'ja? I don't want her wakin' up." He makes sure, certainly, not to mention that she woke crying earlier, and he didn't have the faintest clue what to do at all. It is the most terrified Scout has ever been in his entire life. If Spy sees that, somebody else will know, and he doesn't think he could handle that.

Of course, the silence extends for too long, and Spy looks at him. "You cannot think of a thing you want."

Scout shrugs. "I wanna be on my own. I wanna drink."

"No," The man entreats him. "Real things. What is it you want to be, Scout? What is it you want out of life?"

Weakly, he tries to get out of it one last time. He doesn't feel like talking, and when Scout doesn't feel like something he can rarely bring himself to do it. "What is it  _you_ want?"

Spy leans back on his hands and takes a long, graceful, drag. His eyes are incredibly still and calm, but when he talks they wander, like an ocean, or a spinning sky. There really is so much more. "I would like to retire early." He says. "And spend the rest of my days in Champagne."

"The drink?" Spy laughs.

"The place. The region of Champagne. I would like to spend my days there, without any obligations. That is what I want out of life."

It's an answer. Scout has not made any plans, or put anything in the ground. It seems that the day his entire life has been for has passed, incidental and inconsequential and now he is left trying to find another purpose. Spy smiles because he has it all figured out, and touches Scout's upper-arm again, softly. "So, cher, there must be something you want?"

Scout isn't through with life. But that's only because life isn't through with him. He thinks about his own helplessness; saying not a word to which front his own daughter goes, or to where he might end. He wants to remember what it is to be uncorrupted by experiences and society, but does not have the means to hold on.

"I want to own a place." Scout says, very quietly. "It's really dumb, alright? But I want a place that's mine. And people come 'cause they wanna see me. I want one a' those tacky porch-swings, an' some apple trees." He sighs. "An' if a bastard comes to me, I can tell him to get the hell out. 'Cause it's my place, y'know? That's..."

Scout looks up at Spy, as if for confirmation. "That's what I want outta life."

But everything comes at a cost. He knows that, he does, even when Spy looks at him warily, and nods. "I think it is a fair enough trade."

"What?"

"The girl, for your future." Spy pauses. "That is, if you wish to make that decision."

Eventually, Scout wishes him goodnight and all,feigning tiredness. But he winds up lying there, in the darkness with his eyes wide open, not daring to mention that his place was home in Fenway. His place has Johnny Walker, Jim Bean, record collections, the hot Boston temper.

His place has many rooms, and one of them is for her.

 


	27. XXVII

_(AN: godspeed to all of those who collected their AS/A2 results yesterday. thank you all kindly for your time and dedication. i love you all immensely, and i am working as fast and hard as is humanly possible.)_

"Scout?"

It's early enough that the sun hasn't risen. Patches of ice cling to thick heaps of prairie grass where available, but pass by quickly enough that it becomes a blur of hard whites and earth-yellows. The colours look uglier under the heavy dawn.

Scout is staring out of the passenger's window. There's a cigarette in his hand, but it's been burning away for a while, forgotten. The girl is clutched in the other, held tight, awake and staring up at Scout lazily. It isn't as if he notices. Sniper keeps his hands on the wheel, but lets his eyes on his passenger.

"Scout, kid?" He says, louder this time. "You're gonna burn your fingers." It doesn't do a thing to lift Scout from his trance. The boy's eyes are staring out at something, but looking no deeper than by necessity. It's possible Scout's lost in thinking. It is. Sniper really believes that at any moment he'll be implored, entreated, to turn around and head back to base for Scout to figure his own way.

But Scout says nothing, not until the cigarette does burn him, and he drops it onto the floor beneath his feet, stamping it out, and putting his fingers in the corner of his mouth, still absent. He doesn't even swear, or make any other distinguishable noise.

"Hey," Sniper reaches out an arm and touches the boy, easily. "Hey, don't ignore me."

It snaps Scout out of it something awful. He jolts upright in his seat, and looks vaguely at Sniper, but more sort of through him, as people do when they have been awake for too long. Then he lays his free hand over his eyes horizontally, and presses hard as if trying to paralyse the optic nerve and send the world into a voidlike black.

"Sorry." Scout says, so damn quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm jus' tired, really. I'm fine."

Fine. Sniper doesn't much care for that word, anymore than he cares for how 'tired' Scout is. They all knew this day was coming. While he knows Scout should be prepared, he does feel sorry for the kid. It doesn't matter to anybody else quite as much. But with that said, they are all in that state of not having. Scout is in the state of having, and then losing.

"You eaten?"

There he goes staring out at the vastness again. Sniper clears his throat.

"What?" Scout turns, still dazed. He looks through Sniper once more, settling his eyes on the man's mouth. "What did you want?"

"I asked if you'd eaten."

"Oh." Scout nods, solemnly. "Naw. M'not hungry." He looks it, though. The kid is awfully pale, and sweating at the hairline. None of them have seen him at a single meal, but none of them are quite brave or intrusive enough to ask about it. This is the time he needs them most, and all they can afford for him is acknowledgement.

As if trying to redeem himself, sniper starts up again. "You got to be hungry. I haven't seen you eat in days." He waves a hand. "There'll be some jerky in the glovebox."

The boy doesn't appear to hear him once more. Now he's looking at the floor where the cigarette had rolled, and where it was stamped out. He doesn't register a thing: not the cracks in the road, or Sniper's words, or even the burn on his hand. Trying for patience, Sniper repeats himself. "Scout." But gets no reaction. "Kid, c'mon."

But he doesn't have the time for Scout, to be honest, every second travelling further, and making it harder to turn around, like he keeps thinking Scout will want to. "Goddamnit, kid!"

Sick, and smacks the boy's arm with the back of his hand, and pulls to a stop at the side of the road. Smacks him hard enough to get Scout whimpering. The sudden outburst scares them all, but the girl the most. Of course, because she's so tiny, and starts to wail right away.

Scout stays looking at him for a moment. And it really is juts a moment, and no longer, but he's looking into the man's eyes, wounded, engaged, but most of all things there present, the boy looks confused. The fate he has been assigned is not one he understands or much likes.

The moment, as they tend to, passes, and Scout fusses with his girl, quieting her. Jesus, it's obvious, even if it's inconvenient and unwilling, but Scout looks at her with eyes obscured with adoration. This might well kill him, but the kid never asks to turn around, never cries, or tries to fight it. It's difficult just ton recognise him. Scout just sits there, with all the grace and dignity of a man's last walk to the electric chair.

There's a little waltz left in him yet, so to speak, but it will be a long time before they see it.

"Alright, kid." Sniper repeats himself very slowly as if Scout cannot grasp the words. "There'll be some jerky in the glovebox. Eat some damn food, would you,  _kindly_?"

He expects Scout to start shouting at that –hell, wants him to, just for normalcy's sake. The kid hates being reminded of his youth, his gallantry. He hates being told what to do, and for a second it looks like he'll bite, but the kid just sits back, giving himself a moment.

"I ain't  _hun_ gry. I'm  _sorry_." Scout says to him, very coldly. "For Chrissake, I can't work up an appetite jus' 'cause you  _want_  me to."

There's that bit of fight, certainly. But it's in the wrong place. Or at least, the place Sniper didn't expect it to be. How can Scout be so calm about it all? Not willing, but calm, certainly. To go so peacefully isn't in his nature. Scout is plenty of things, but he isn't noble like that. He isn't graceful: he'll kick and scream and fight.

"Would you quit worryin' an' drive?  _Please_?" Scout leans back in his chair and looks out of the window again. He rubs his eyes every so often, for effect, but if Scout were truly tired, he'd be asleep in his seat.

Sniper's hands don't make a move to start driving again. He lights a cigarette himself, and looks intently at the boy. "Talk to me, kid." But at Scout's silence, he sighs. "For God's sakes, say somethin'-"

"About what?" Scout desperates. "The movies? The weather? What the hell do you wanna hear?" At that, he now has Sniper's silence. "I said I was tired. Now, would you jus' drive us the hell to town?"

Again, Sniper stays very still, and continues smoking. He tugs the cigarette out of his mouth to speak. "I ain't drivin' us anywhere before you say somethin' true."

"I already told you, I'm tired-"

Sniper throws his head back against the rest and hisses. "Like hell you are!" He snaps. "Do you even know where we're going?" Scout stares at him, swung open, listening to every word like another torn stitch. "You're about to give away the kid you had -not even a  _week_ ago- to a brother you ain't seen in  _years_  and you're telling me, truthfully, that you got  _nothin'_  to-"

When he looks back at Scout, the kid is even paler, and his mouth is all tight as if it's trying to trap an enormous sob. His eyes are shining dangerously, too, but he isn't crying yet. To the boy, Sniper is just a dark, wobbling photo of grief.

Slightly, like a wrong hushed-up, the kid gets out some words. "Her name is Moira." He murmurs, bleakly.

"Moira, then." Sniper says. He amends it softly. It's not as if he wants the kid to cry or anything, but better now than after many years of toxic silence. "If you do this, you aren't ever going to be more than some relative to her."

"Y'think I don't  _know_ that?" The kid says, sharply. His voice is still very slight. "Y'think I don't wish that Danny'd change his mind? Or  _drop dead_?" When Sniper doesn't speak, Scout does so for him. " _No_ , you don't think. You don't have a  _goddamn_  clue, so I suggest you drive like you're supposed to, or I'll walk the rest of the  _goddamn_  way, if it's all the same to you."

A few specks of sleet sully the clear windshield. Sniper knows he can't possibly understand Scout, and wouldn't particularly like to try. At least he knows the kid has thought it through. He puts the vehicle into drive and continues down the open road. Scout's girl blubbers a little, but doesn't start to cry, whispered to in such a quiet voice. They have there same eyes, bluer than the grey cloud-ranks, and she seems to do the crying for him.

They continue down the road for a little while more. Ten minutes or so pass in the awful silence, but even to Sniper, as solitary as he usually is, it's too much. "What's he like?" Scout looks up at him after a few moments, groggy from withdrawing. "This brother of yours?"

The kid shrugs. "He's fine."

"That isn't what I asked you."

Scout gives him another hard look, but his eyes are honest-to-god dry this time, and his words are steady. "What the hell do you give a damn for, anyway? I remember you bein' pretty quick to say how she weren't 'your problem' in the first place."

Sniper pauses on his inhale, and swallows the first thing that comes to his lips –a protest. He looks at Scout and cocks his head a little. "Don't quote me to myself, kid. Things have changed since then."

"They sure have." Scout bites, and then has another hand at mock-civility, for old time's sake. "Danny'll do a far less shitty job of raisin' her, than I would. That's all you need to know. Alright?"

"Alright." Sniper says. He can see the town coming to life in the distance, and wonders if Scout really is ready, or if he's fooling them all. But all he can say is. "Alright."

-

Scout loiters around the hotel entrance for a little while. He's met with that familiar dose of affection and concern.

His question being: why is it always a mixture?

Sniper lays a hand, and goddamn him for it, a real gentle on Scout's shoulder, and looks him in the eyes like this is a moment he'll remember or care for in the future. They're both nervous as hell, that's clear, huddled out in the cold with their cigarettes and all of their worries. Scout can't even smoke properly, his washing-machine stomach turning over and over like a car engine trying to start, but dying each time.

"You can back out of this, you know." Snipe tells him so suddenly after a bout of moderate silence. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

There is no future or answer after this anyway. If there was, Scout wouldn't have even gotten dressed. But there he is, in clothes that barely fit him, smoking out of the corner of his mouth and trying desperately to keep his daughter warm. The pink blanket bleeds a loose thread in his hand like slander: elizabeth, elizabeth-...the girl. No, his girl.

Scout shakes his head. "An' what?" He laughs. "Send him back on a four-hour flight, without a thing?" And then, he drops his cigarette and uses both arms to keep his girl close to his warm, beating heart. "No, I gotta do this. I gave him my word. You gotta honour that, or words don't mean anythin'."

Sniper looks at his boy. "Are you alright?"

"What do you think?" The boy finds it in him to laugh, but doesn't mean it. By nature, he is imperfect, but his girl is not. Still nervous and shaking like a madman, he turns to Sniper, suspended and open. "I should –I'm already late."

Sniper watches him take the last moment he really has, or the only moment he thinks he'll need, to take in a breath and try to look –to look as if he doesn't want to throw himself from the third floor balcony. Either way, he will die if he sees Danny there, and he'll die if he doesn't. What can he do but test his survivability? It should be simple enough: the girl, for his future.

It should be.

Inside is much warmer. It isn't particularly fancy, but the carpet is rich enough and porters make trails through the foyer. Seats are across the room, facing away, and the reception is free of any customers. Scout treads the ice off of his shoes as a courtesy and sits in a seat nearest the door to try to warm up. He likes the anonymity of hotels, but is warmed none by them in the moment.

Moira whimpers at him some more, reaching a very slow arm up and getting Scout on the nose. It's not particularly powerful, but the cold has rendered him sensitive and he recoils, sniffing like hell and grumbling. "Don't do that." He mumbles to her, rubbing the tip of his nose sourly. "Jesus, you're jus' like me."

She stares at him vacantly. He remembers Medic telling him that hearing develops before you're born, so when he speaks, she recognises his voice, and knows it to be the salient, the star to her wandering bark. Maybe Danny can mimic him. Maybe his voice is softer –hell, maybe he can sing.

When Scout looks up, just to take stock of the people in the foyer, he realises he's sitting across from a mirror, and finds himself sort of entranced. He's wearing the jersey Ma got him, underneath a coat, and the dark tweed scarf Danny had sent him, for courtsey's sake. Above the scarf, his face is very white and glistening at the brow, perspiration-moist while his lips are blue and cracked.

His only grace is that Danny hasn't seen him properly in a very long time. There are trouble with that, too, such as finding him, in the damn place.

Scout finds him over by the tall potted plant, with a blonde woman, from a distance. He recognises Danny's face for certain once he's seen it, what with the Weiss eyes and his absent father's nose. What really gives it away, though, is the guy's hair. Danny is the second-tallest, despite being the fourth-oldest. He grew about six inches in a damn year, and Scout can see his head of grey-brown hair like a siren.

Oh, Jesus. It's really him. That escape rope –that voice down the telephone: it leads somewhere. Scout isn't strong enough to go over right away. It takes him many tries.

Danny's wife, a name that fails Scout always, spies him first on the way over. She's mid-sip, but once she sees him, clatters her cup back into it's saucer, stands, and stares, bewildered, lobotomised. She stares at him for so long, with such intensity that Scout is scared he might be of some injury, or that he has done something terribly wrong.

In a second he has a woman circling arms around him like stone. "Oh, God, you saint. I knew you would." She's hysterical, but worse: she won't let go of him. "Oh, Danny, I knew he'd come. I knew he would. I knew it!"

A tiny voice disrupts them, sounding a hell of a lot crummier in physicality then on the phone. "Let the kid breathe, for Chrissake. You don't want to scare him."

The man turns in his seat, and looks right at Scout. This moment is supposed to be different. It is supposed to be something great, but it is awful. It's awful, because Danny's bones are so harsh, at every visible juncture, cutting hard lines into his gaunt, white face and making his hands look sharp and talon-like. Even his eyes, the colour of Scout's, of grown oceans, are sunken deep into purple sockets, and roll around bleakly in the yellows of his eyes.

Scout tries to master the gasp coming up out of him, trying to cloak it as a cough, but Danny isn't a fool. Not usually, anyway.

They stare at eachother for just a second, Scout in shock, and Danny in some kind of genial melancholy, before he speaks, still looking right at Scout. Not the small girl resting on his shoulder, or the one wrapped around him.

"Awright, Denise, let the bastard siddown." At his word, she sits next to him, her soft fingers grabbing for his, and it looks like she might well break them if she squeezes too hard. Scout can't help but stare, unable to close his mouth, unable to contain his fear. None of the Weiss boys die They don't. They don't even get sick: they're the heroes of some tragic story, they don't to be saved, or mourned, they don't need eulogies or obituaries or to have hands so goddamn thin –Scout is trying, but he can't stop thinking about those hands, those frail fingers in his daughter's hair when it grows.

At his silence, and the trembling of his legs when he sits, Danny nods to him. "You got chills or somethin'?"

Scout doesn't trust himself to speak, so he shakes his head 'no'.

"You're shakin' like a madman. You want a drink?" Scout knows he's got to use words, but isn't quite ready. He keeps right on staring at Danny's claws curled around his cup while he drinks, and how he has seen wine glasses with thicker stems. "Who's this little lady?"

That's his cue to move. Stiffly, as some work of metal, Scout shifts Moira down form his shoulder. He feels as if he has swallowed many rocks, his stomach sharp and heavy. His throat is tight, too, but worse, his voice is a pinched train-wreck when he tries to speak. "This's Moir-"

Danny interrupts him gracelessly, holding out a trembling hand, like a skeleton, beckoning. "This's our Elizabeth."

Scout's mouth snaps shut.

"You mind if I hold her? I just waited so goddamn long for this." Next to him, Danny's wife is all softness and grace, her eyes glistening, not stung, with some collection of tears. She has no idea what it is to cry, Scout would bet it, but next to Danny., she might well be an angel. Her hand is up, a little, and the light behind her catches as he leans forward. For just a second , the angel is twirling a fiery ball of white light.

"Sure." Scout says, after too long a time. He stares at Danny again, but gives Moira over, eventually. It feels like cutting of a part of himself –no, his favourite part of himself. Like cutting off a rib, of a chamber right out of his heart: he will not be able to function without it, and the initial loss hurts to hell.

But he manages to smile.

Danny's wife is so taken, all at once. "Oh, she's a darling." The woman coos. "My darling Elizabeth, she's so beautiful. Oh, jus' look at her! You ever see a more beautiful goddamn baby in your whole life?"

Danny laughs at the woman's invincible spring, and shakes his head. "She sure is a beauty. Your girl must 'a been a real catch, kid. I mean, she must'a been gorgeous, for Chrissake!"

Danny scratches behind his ear when he makes the joke, the line of his jaw so definite and sharp, it looks sliced. Shyly, Scout raises and drops one shoulder, watching his hands, his goddamn brittle fingers. Even the wedding band is slipping about, once fitting and held in place, now rattling about like the stale air in the man's lungs.

"Aw, don't be modest, kid, it don't suit you. You oughta be proud you got sexy with such a goddamn catch."

His wife looks at him as if she has just bitten the end of her tongue. "Watch your damn language, wouldja?" But catches the light all angelic when she turns back to Scout, smiling, patient. "I gotta admit...I didn't really ever believe you were gonna pull this off. Where's your girl?"

Scout doesn't even look up. He merely says, "Gone." vacantly. Whatever Danny has ordered him to drink is suddenly tasteless, or at least, as flavourful as being alone. He feels as if he is being broken into small parts.

Danny's wife only kisses Moira once, only once, goddamn it, she doesn't care if it's perfect, she only kisses her once and her hands are too heavy when she strokes the girl's back and Scout is tearing himself apart not to scream: she only kisses Moira once. She calls her Elizabeth, and aside from the blanket which Scout wants to set alight, cut to pieces, there is no Elizabeth and there never was.

"You awright, kid?"

Scout waves a hand, at last, finding his movement. "I'm jus' havin' an off day. Ignore me. I don't wanna spoil things." He is trying to let go in small doses. But Danny's hands are so goddamn thin, coffin-thin, and his face is corpse-gaunt and his wife only kisses Moira once like she isn't good enough for perfect, like it hurts to practise, like she knows there will be time for more later.

She laughs, airily, and pats Moira's back, but doesn't move her lips any more than to speak. "How couldja ruin this? She's so beautiful. We already got this little pink bassinet, and some toys –and so many books, Scout, you wouldn't believe it..." The breathy words taste like carbon monoxide. Danny's cancerous, lean fingers touch Moira's back and Scout flinches, physically, jolting in his seat.

He invents a reason to be disappointed with that, because he needs to. "You got that book we used to have, wit' all the animals?"

She nods tom him, all enthusiastic. "Your Ma cleared out her attic for us. I know it's mainly not things for girls, but we took all the books, an' the toys, an' the blankets. Elizabeth's already got a whole room ready."

Scout swallows. He swallows and notices suddenly how next to Danny it's clear how much makeup she's wearing -lipstick and everything- and thinks about Ma explaining to him once that she liked her lines, felt like she's earned them. Scout likes his lines, likes his spots, and to remember how to explode. He remembers how Medic exploded, remembers the man's hands around his throat, and it makes him feel cold inside.

"Elizabeth?" his voice is cold and sharp. It's so malicious that Danny intervenes.

"Yeah, Elizabeth. Denise say's it means 'God's promise. Like Ma's means 'bitter'."

Scout stares right at him. The face, now, and doesn't think to even blink. "I like Ma's name. I think it's beautiful."

"Still." Danny says, his voice all grainy. "Still, what's decided's decided. Can I get you a drink?"

Scout doesn't want to drag it out. He doesn't want to drag it out and have Moira –Moira, goddamnit, in and out of his his arms. Medic told him about amputation once, and that even though it was reckless and hurt like hell at the time, before modern surgery, it was advised to do it as fast as possible. He can live with the phantom limb, but would rather have his hand slices off and cauterised quickly than bleed out, far from here, in his own consuming sadness.

So he says, "No. No. I can't stay long. I really can't." What he wouldn't give to take Moira out of her arms and that awful blanket and back to base and watches her fall asleep in his Red regulation bunk and stroke her back just right when she wakes crying and kiss her more than once, as many times as it takes to make it perfect, with soft hands and an endless devotion.

Danny's wife looks very sad. She passes Moira over to Danny, and it looks like it might break him, those pale, treacherous hands on his girl, leaving white-hot marks in Scout's vision. "Surely you can stay for a drink. Sure you can." She looks at Danny and gets this little nod. "Certainly you can, come on."

"No, really-" But not a soul heeds him.

"Nonsense. I'm insistin', awright? Soda?"

"Coffee." Scout puts it plainly, scratching his neck to keep his hands busy. To keep from snatching his girl back. "Coffee's fine."

Danny looks at him. "Well, awright then. Any flavours, or sugars?"

"Plain." Scout is begging him to go, so he no longer has to look at the starved, drained man that might once have been Danny. "Plain's good."

Danny stands, handing Moira back with an overly-auspicious care to his hand, into his Wife's arms, before puttering over to the bar in the lounge. Scout watches him go, and then stares out of the window to his left, tapping on the arm of the chair. He wants his girl back, and another cigarette. He wants a different fate to the one he's assigned himself.

Danny's wife can't stand the silence, though. "Don't you worry. We'll take such good care of her. She's gonna have everythin' she needs, an' you're always welcome to bring your girl to visit on the weekends. We can send you photographs, and have her talk on the telephone-"

Scout raises a small objection. "How long have you been married to Danny?"

She laughs. "Why, these last six years, of course."

"An' you always knew you couldn't have kids."

She looks at him coldly and smooths down her skirt. "We discovered that three years ago. Some of us-" her eyes flick up to Scout, and she bites on her fat bottom lip. "Some of us ain't so lucky."

He doesn't feel sorry for her. He doesn't feel anything at all. Staring blandly forward, he opens his mouth again. "So you known all that time. Why d'you want a baby so bad now?"

For a moment, it looks like she's taken up a vow of silence, mouth closed in a hard grim line, arms folded over her chest like fleshy sandbags during an air raid. But a dam of her own building does not contain the flood of her own words. "You seen my husband, ain't you?" her voice is quick and limping.

Scout nods, slowly.

"Swell guy, ain't he? He's generous, an' good: goes to church, pays his taxes. Tell me, jus' between us. How's he look to you?"

Scout glances over at the bar. Danny leans heavy on it: damn heavy, a ghost of a man in an overcoat, his face white and his hands filling with drinks, as if to give him some weight. He's barely a vapour, and Scout doesn't know what to say. Danny's wife supplies the words for him. "He look well to you? He look healthy?"

Scout swallows. "What're you sayin?"

she glares at Scout hard. "I'm sayin' he's sick, and he won't tell nobody how sick. An' it ain't jus' today. I figured this could be our last goddamn shot if he don't start getting' better, at havin' a family. You got any idea what it's like to think about losin' a husband?"

Scout thinks about Medic's pride, and how they parted. He thinks about Sniper's own parting, graceless, useless, leaving him unable to stand, and thinks that he might have a little more in common than he dares say. Scout swallows.

"I know what it's like to lose a daughter."

She swallows. "You made your damn choice." She hisses. In her arms, Moira ia getting agitated, arms uncurling a little, and then curling back in, whimpering a little as if nervous. Scout is nervous, too. Nervous for what the woman might say when she speaks again. "How dare you think you know what this is like."

Scout rises to that. "I know about loss, goddamnit."

"No." She says, airily. In one of those voice so quiet, it's even more terrifying than if she's have screamed. "No, you know about sacrifice. That's a choice you make. Loss is a choice made for you."

Scout thinks about all the things he didn't choose. About fate being that restaurant Ma spoke about. He hasn't ordered anything. In fact, the things he has ordered never came, or came colder, later, less alive. He knows more about loss than he would dare grace her to hear, and even more about sacrifice, but nods solemnly, instead, letting Danny return with the drinks.

But Scout can't stand to look at him. Danny's so pale, and already out of breath, and tries to look for a way out. He doesn't want coffee. He doesn't taste anything but the mistake he's making but doesn't say anything, because there's a loose thread of blanket on Danny's wife's lap and so is Danny's awful, grave-like hand and she only kissed Moire once, how dare she say she knows about loss, she only kissed Moira once.

Danny sits and goes in –in for the killer kiss and he looks so weak. It winds him and the man starts coughing like an empty bellows, so loudly that it feels as if the rest of the hotel is staring at them. Loud enough to disturb Moira, who starts to cry. Scout wants to cry with her, he really does, but instead, stands up, awkwardly.

"I'll take her." He says, quickly. "Jus' for the moment. I'll settle her an' all." He's practically pleading with them, and Danny's still hacking up his own lungs, getting specks of crimson on his hands, and on his wife's skirt, and on Moira's blanket...

Danny's wife looks up at him. "Certainly you can, but you be quick now." And she cannot be faulted for the graceful care she hands Moira back with, despite her smile being treason. Scout takes her, God, he never wants to let her go again, and walks towards where he suspects the facilities are, even though he has never been inside this hotel before.

The bathroom is unattended and apparently unoccupied when Scout goes in. It's large and narrow, a wall of sinks, and cubicles and urinals surrounding him. He stands, lost for a moment, letting Moira cry, in the middle of the floor, before feeling into one of the end cubicles: one that looks inauspicious and unimportant.

He fits, about, and manages to lock the sticky bolt behind him. The toilet had a seat and all, but for some reason, he just sat down where he was, in the space between the toilet and the door, indifferent to the dirt and the cold tile, indifferent to the rest of the universe. He brings his knees together and draws them up tight, leaning Moira against them as he hushes her, not knowing what else to do but let her suckle on the end of his smallest finger. It doesn't always work at first, but calms her eventually.

Them, he puts his hands vertically over his eyes and pushes down with the heels until the word is a void of darkness twinkling with fuzzy, imagined stars. His extended fingers are trembling, and maybe it's because of Danny, or just because he's trembling, but he can see the blue of the veins and the softness of the pads and thinks how alive he looks. When his nails dig into his palms, the skin turns livid and angry, but at least he is alive.

He holds the tense, almost fetal pose for a moment, and then breaks down. He cries for fully five minutes, but inside the cubicle, it feels like an eternity, a loop of hell played on repeat. His throat cracks but he doesn't try to suppress any of it, the noises or the ugly, heavy breaths, with all the same convulsions a hysterical child makes when breath tries to claw it's way back up. He cries for Danny, but most of all for his Moira, pulling her in close and rocking, very slowly in the space given. She's still sort of crying, too, and he wipes at her face, pleading with her.

"It's alright." He blubbers. "It's alright. It's alright-...it's alright, Moira. We're alright." His voice is so pathetic, and his words are useless, but that's all he can think to say, rocking her like a broken woman with her cold, dead children in her arms. "Moira." He sobs. "My Moira..."

His girl uncurls an arm again, still a little distressed, and catches him on the nose again. It makes Scout laugh, at first, but then he dissolves into more uncontrollable, knifelike sobs.

As much as he resents it, or fights it, Danny's wife is right. He made his damn choice.

So when Scout stops crying, he simply stops, no desperate gags for breath, or torn open gasps. His expression becomes vacant again and he manages to make himself stand with sheer force of will. He uses the water to fix his hair, and pinches his face to give it some colour before wiping his face down and practising his smile. It already feels as if something is missing, an the absent object hurts him. Moira is his phantom limb.

Back in the foyer, he hands Moira back carefully to Danny's wife and gives them a five dollar bill. "I really have to go." he says. "I really do. But you'll call me when you get back home, yeah?"

Danny leans so heavy on his arm, but does the rasping. "You sure you're awright?" The man asks, his teeth tacky and yellow with plasma. "Your eyes are all bloodshot, an'-"

"I'm fine." Scout tells him. "I really am, but I do have to go."

"You do?"

Danny's grip is still firm on his arm, but Scout bring them closer to eachother, so close that Danny can see his eyes shining and his breathing tighten. "Please." Scout's mouth makes the word. "Please."

That is their goodbye, for now. That is their goodbye, and all Scout is left with is the sleet hitting the windows, and a set of hours completely in tears. They pull over on the drive back because Scout's can't even manage to breathe, curled out, wronged, begging with Sniper. "Take me back." his voice is so small, destroyed by his ailing heart. "Please! Take me back to her!"

The man pulls Scout into him so tight, and rocks, just like Scout did, slowly and gently, stroking the boy's back, encouraging these trembling, swift little breaths, assuring him, "It's alright, kid. It's alright. It's over now."

"I want her b-back..." Scout cries. "Take me back!"

It's alright, they tell him. It's alright. No-one's got it all.


	28. XXVIII

_(apologies for slow devices. I haven't been around last week, and won't be for another five days. after this, all i have left to write is an epilogue. this started out as a distraction and has become a consuming passion, so a great thanks to all of you who have motivated me and shared my passion. endless props to pyroness for a sensitive and incredible fanmix 'to love a ghost' which i'll link at the end. i love you all._  )

They know Scout is suffering, and at first, he supposes nothing will be done.

But that's the supposed truth about love. It can be filled with resentment, and distance, and nonchalance, but still blaze like a wildfire, spreading like violence. Love is a lot like violence, even when it is not the passionate sort, but instead, one from good intentions. A year ago, Scout wouldn't have believed it, too young, too set on polarity, and the thing that opens his eyes is instigated with only three words.

At some indeterminate time, sniper tells them all, "He's not eating."

It's true. Scout spends the rest of the day alone, because any kind of touch will burn him, and any conversation will poison his ears. He doesn't cry: mostly because he can't, out of dehydration and resignation. There is some kind of peace in him, or maybe he's just delirious. None of them see him, not for dinner, or at all, and it's what he needs.

At some point in the night –Scout can't tell when because he has no clock, he hears Medic pausing at his door with a very gentle voice.

"Scout?" His voice is very slight, as if unwilling to disturb, but pressed to be sure that Scout is still there, somehow. Do they think he is a suicide case? Jesus, he really could be, but doesn't feel like killing himself as much as trying to erase the world and all it has done wrong to him. He doesn't feel like anything, let alone answering Medic's call.

"Scout, are you there?" Of course, if he doesn't, the man will just keep calling, and might even come in. If he sees Medic's glistening, lovesick eyes he'll probably burst into tears, so Scout finds his voice among the rubble, somehow.

"Yes." He says, quietly, voice sore and pathetic. "Yeah, I'm here."

For a second, Medic pauses, probably surprises that Scout still has it in him to talk. What was it the man said? About their proximity not lessening his affections? That toxic love is still there, somewhere in his voice, but the man is good enough not to open the door.

"Are you going to eat something?"

Scout rolls onto his side to face the wall. After many months of having to lie on his sides, it's become a habit. It's no longer comfortable to do anything but stretch out of his left. It reminds him, quite awfully, as everything seems to.

After a while, he sighs. "I'm not hungry."

Medic doesn't argue with him on that. The man always bows to his whims without much of a fight at all. Should Scout have to come up with some sort of idea for infatuation, he'd use that. Still at the door, Medic stays suspended for a second. He seems to be considering each move in the conversation like some great chess game where the stakes are high.

"Will you eat something when you are hungry?"

Scout rubs his eyes. "Sure." he says, woodenly. "Certainly I will. I jus' ain't hungry now, Doc."

There's another silence, heavy with breathing and conspiracy. Scout feels weak. He feels terribly weak, and torn open and empty. Something is missing: he knows what but cannot say, and it pains him like an amputation. Like only phantom limb can. He has been alone before, and lonely, too.

There is no word for this. He doesn't feel like a human being so much as spare parts.

"Scout." Medic says again. He doesn't mind the name. It's the Weiss part like a bad luck charm that nobody ever says, thankfully. And it's the way Medic says it to. The man can see who he likes, can move on, and probably will. But if he ever says Scout's name in the same breath as any other man's, they will never taste the same. "Scout, I cannot begin to imagine how you are, but please..."

It hurts him to hear it.

"Do not be reckless with yourself. You are still very much healing from an exhaustive process."The man swallows. "It may not seem possible, but you will heal from this eventually. Allow yourself the chance, lieb-...Scout."

He knows he should be tender to Medic in return. Kind, even, but everything is tasteless, and the air might as well be carbon monoxide. Scout has no motivation to consider other people's mortality, or survivability.

"I'll eat when I'm hungry." He says, blandly. There's no explanation needed for that.

"As you like it." Medic says. "I won't bother you."

Scout thinks it will end there.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, he goes down to the mess hall for a drink only. Water: clear, cold water to waken his rusty insides.

Medic is right: he's still healing, and weak, and the surgical staples have yet to come out, but Scout has chosen his life and doesn't intend to fail his physical. He's used to being greeted by the smell of hot food: the kind that makes you sick so early in the morning. It's a custom in the same way Engineer likes to fry his food, and Scout only notices it now. It's absence.

Not a soul is missing from the table. They all have their solitary morning drinks, and are armed with magazines, newspapers, and letters from home. But none of them are eating.

Scout stops short and pales. He can't quite stomach even the water, suddenly.

"Are we out of food?" He asks, to the room in question. All eyes fix on him, frosty and glazed.

"No," Sniper is the one to answer him. Drops his back-issue of national geographic from his face and looks plainly at Scout, and through him. He can see every treacherous bone in Scout's body, and knows how he cried: knows it like none of the others. "No, we got food." The man says. "But I jus' ain't hungry."

Scout stares at them all, injured. He cannot be sure he isn't being mocked until Spy's voice pirouettes over to him as if gliding over an entire ocean, still in it's miraculous repair, fluid and the hard iron of a barnacled umbilicus.

"I am not hungry, either." Spy gives him a sad smile. It overwhelms Scout. There is nothing between them, in that they are universes apart, and in that nothing can possibly separate them.

"We got plenty a' food." Engineer's voice comes stronger, and less sympathetic. If they're trying to make a point, then Engineer is the discipline to Spy's cold affection. Scout dares to look at the man for a second and no longer, intimidated. He will not be bullied into anything. What does he care if they go hungry for some crusade? His insides are ash: it has been a thousand years since food has sustained him. "None of us are hungry, would you believe it."

Scout's jaw snaps shut. "That's a hell of a thing." He says, completely hollow.

He drinks his water, and spends the rest of the morning packing for Dustbowl.

* * *

Base is quiet as the western front for the rest of the day.

None of them eat anything. Not for fear of being caught by the boy, but as some kind of act of solidarity. A team, Soldier was always saying, was a well-oiled machine made up of parts. The machine worked together, so they did: eating, resting, suffering. The strange breed of love spreads faster than a Santa Cruz forest fire.

Spy shaves in the bathroom. It is curious why he stands in front of the mirror, as he never looks anywhere but his eyes, shaving through guesswork. Those eyes, to him, are neutral territory, it seems. He doesn't notice right away when he is joined by a rambling man.

"Are you busy?" Medic's voice catches him at an odd moment, but his razor does not jump from it's straight line. Spy continues to stare at his own eyes, so when he speaks, it's as if he's speaking to himself.

"Not at all." He says, quickly. "Not in the slightest. Though, if I wanted every sad German 'ound to watch me shaving, I'd-"

But there's this look in Medic's eyes that begs for solidarity, in softness, and another, more implicit kind of hardness that tells him there is a higher calling. That's the trouble with people: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and too often they find themselves part of the few.

So Spy sighs, still staring into his eyes and letting the blade of the razor move, independently of his own ministrations. "What is it you want, Docteur?"

The man sits down on the stool besides the sink, as if to stay for a while, and while spy has a million protests to his privacy being invaded, he doesn't want to man to up and leave, one-two-three, just like that.

"Have you seen him eat yet?" Medic stares bleakly at the man's bare feet.

"I 'ave barely seen 'im speak." Spy continues to shave. "Give the boy some time, would you? The wound is still fresh."

Medic shakes his head. "Time is not what he needs." His eyes flick up from spy's feet to his mirror, staring at the razor when he speaks. "I fear that time would do nothing."

Spy snorts. "What makes you say that?" He pauses, for a moment, to lift his cigarette from the soapcatch in the sink, and relight it. "If you'd like to know the truth, I think 'e's less sensitive than you imagine."

Medic glares at him. "You think that everybody is made out of iron."

"I don't." Spy laughs. He comes to lean against the basin, his body curling an little. He turns from the shoulder's up to look at Medic. "I don't think that at all. But after this, the boy will have to be."

"If he survives." medic pleads, uselessly. "What can we do? There must be something, there mus-"

"That's the trouble with you 'elpers." Spy sighs. "You can't 'elp 'elping. What would you have me do for the boy?"

Medic doesn't pay any mind to being interrupted, but instead begins tapping his upper-lip nervously, as some men do. The man is lost for a moment, rep[laying all of the things he knows about Scout –the real things, at least, in his mind, but can only find true love for Scout in the way the boy squints after he sneezes, the way he blows out candles, the way he breathes.

There's nothing left of Scout to him.

"If only-" Medic laments. Cold, Spy continues to shave, continues to smoke.

"Mm, constructive." He murmurs. It would be easy to be given pause to strangle the man, and if anybody knows how to bleed a man to death using a razor, it'd be Medic. Conflicted, distant, he pulls out a long breath.

"If only I could get one of his brothers on the telephone."

Spy looks around at Medic, but this time, not far and unimpressed. For once, struck, really caught off guard by something real and true, some silver lining in this mushroom cloud. He nods, minutely, and speaks slighter, gentler. Maybe Medic's right, and Spy tries to consciously remember: the man really isn't made out of iron. Hell, even Spy's insides are copper and he'd kill to make them gold.

"Yes." He says, after a heartbeat or to. "Yes, that might work. Which one?"

Medic looks at him, all wooden and stiff with a horrible taste in his mouth. "You've read his dossier, Spy. I'm-" The man swallows. "I'm afraid to say you know him better than I do."

It's just sad enough that it warrants some of Spy's deepest sympathies, even reluctantly. He knows what it is to love a ghost, love some idea of a man but to never quite reach out and grasp for him. He couldn't say five things –real things about Sniper. He couldn't. People persist in being, and their crooked hearts insist on betraying them all the same.

Finished with the mirror, Spy wipes his razor down and picks up his cigarette, nearly out. "And 'ow intimate the details are." He wipes his face with a towel and sighs. "Damn you, I'll get one of them on the phone."

Medic smiles at him, wearily.

"Now get the 'ell out of the bathroom."

Spy cannot manipulate his love for Sniper, or for privacy. Some things are constants, you see, and others are variables.

* * *

The others spend their time packing for Dustbowl. Scout continues to train.

The hunger strike is something he tries not to pay any mind to, because, honestly? He isn't hungry. All he can think about is that thread bleeding into his fingers, and Danny's hands –Danny's hands –Danny's hands like a goddamned fairground ride he shouldn't even be on; he needs to get a strategy. On his surly dorm floor there is enough room, about, for him lying, so he does press-ups until his arms and trembling and numb, and his breathing is all funny.

When the feeling fades, he does the same thing again.

He doesn't eat: they don't eat, he trains. This keeps up for a few days until the dorm drives him mad to look at.

Scout finds his pair of running shoes in the back of his RED regulation closet and slips them on. He stretches in the room and slips down the stairs out out back the narrow corridor, into the cold vastness of the badlands, so open and wide that he feels no longer a prisoner but a pilgrim of some sort. There is so little to distract him, and the space seems enough to contain his anxieties, for now.

He starts to run, sheepishly, more of a jog, simply to test his legs. They have never once failed him, and yet, now he feels like an amputee running on somebody else's. It has been so very long. The weightlessness is the strangest part. There are no rocks in his stomach to make him slow and heavy, and yet, he remains at an average pace. It kills him.

He is about to charge forward a little faster when he hears footsteps behind him, the heavy, deliberate kind, and he throws a glance over his shoulder to see who it is.

Hair pulled back, looking so gaunt that he has to look twice, miss Pauling is coming up behind him with surprising determination and alarming tenacity. She looks quite terrible: frail to the point of breakability, her face a shocking sickly white, cheeks harder and more accentuated, eyes cut and sharp.

"What're you  _doing_?" She catches up just behind him and presses forward, face hard, and says not a word. "Christ, what're you  _doing_ , anyway?"

"Running." She says, very breathlessly. "Why? What are  _you_  doing?"

"I-" Scout tries to get some more air in. he shakes his head. "You can't run with me, Miss P."

"Why not?" She wheezes. "Why can't I run with you?"

He tries to keep his eyes forward but invariably ends up looking at her. Miss Pauling is a very beautiful woman –objectively, and all of the men at base can attest to that. She fits everybody's idea of a pretty girl, certainly, but looking so weak, and tired, and starved, for Christ's sake, Scout can only find it in him to pity her.

"I'm goin' out far." Scout says. "Too far for you."

" _Try_  me." She hisses.

If there's something he doesn't want to do, it's try her.

So Scout keeps on running, aware of how ghastly she looks, but never quite daring to ask for fear of what she'll say. Her breathing is very irregular, and while he doesn't doubt Miss Pauling is probably a finer runner, and probably tough enough, she's sick, or weak or starved as hell.

"When was the last time you ate?" She doesn't look at him. At least, not right away. Sickly perspiration is dampening her brow, and her lips are a funny kind of colour. Her eyes roll in her purple sockets. "I'm serious, Miss P. You look like you're about to pass out. Go back."

She keeps right on with him.

"Go back right _now_! An' eat something, for Chrissake!"

She looks at him then, furious, or passionate, like some kind of martyr, twice alive. "I'm not  _hun_ gry. I can't just work up an appetite because you  _want_  me to." Scout can't imagine how she knows to say that. Or why they're holding out hope that guilt will shove something down his throat.. Maybe Scout wants to die. Maybe he doesn't care if they suffer for it: they have yet to learn even the distinction between loss, and sacrifice. "Will you come back if I do?"

Scout says, "No."

"Will you eat something if I do?"

"For Chrissake, leave it alone!" he hisses, trying to break away from her, running faster, keeping his breathing elevated and purposeful. She struggles to match him, even though he's nowhere at his fastest., and shouts.

"Do you  _want_  to die?" She gasps out.

"Maybe I do." Scout runs harder and faster. "Maybe I want exactly that."

A few minutes of silence pass between them. He feels like he might be cramping up in the left leg, but the pain passes after a while, and all that's left is the sound of Miss Pauling gasping behind him, still fighting to keep up, not for Scout's sake anymore, or for some argument on his behalf but because of her own pride. She is just as human as he is.

It's chilly out, the kind that nips at the sweat on his skin and leaves him both too hot, and too cold. Scout already feels weary, and this is something he is supposed to be used to. Every so often, he looks over at Miss Pauling to check that she's still alive, and close to him.

"Wanna call it a day?"

She glares hard at him and has to summon oxygen to speak. "Don't you test me." and she sounds so goddamn weak.

They continue to run for a long time. Scout doesn't let up his pace, ruthlessly, and her breathing becomes more and more scattered until she is wheezing through strides, helpless and proud: he has never known a woman other than Ma to be like this. They're pretty far from base, too, and it isn't even a speck on the horizon.

"You alright?" Scout throws it over his shoulder. He's starting to feel very weak, and even his legs are trembling noticeably. Somewhat behind him, Miss Pauling is even more pale, frightfully so, and bent double. She is barely there, lucid as a floodlight and ghostly. He goes to her, slowly, still shaking. "Miss P-"

Still bent double, she wretches, and vomits into the dirt: mostly a blackish bile, suggesting how long it's been since she has eaten solid food, or any at all. It's awful, and she's trembling worse than he is. Fragile, she lifts he left hand and places it onto Scout's shoulder, head bowed, still very much facing down.

She lifts her right hand towards her face, and her fingertips barely grace her brow before her body curves like a bow, and thus with a little gasp, she faints.

* * *

She wakes, sometime later, with Scout besides her. At first, he can see she's groggy, but recognises the coolness of the Infirmary right away, sitting up slowly.

"Mind," Scout says, croakily. "You got a drip." As if to test reality, she lifts her right arm and inspects the intravenous drip. The clearness of the liquid suggests saline, and she does feel an awful lot better for having something in her blood. "I got one, too." Scout raises his own hand, both of them tethered to drips like sad kites. "Didn't want you to feel left out."

"Shut up." She says, with her characteristic certainty. She places her hand on her head and blushes, that soft rosy colour that becomes her so fantastically. Scout thinks, if he wasn't as fearful of her as he is, he'd probably fall in love with a woman just like that. He's need to. "This is terribly embarrassing. Did I really faint?"

"An' how." He moves closer. His voice is very quiet. "You really should eat something'."

"I'll eat when you do." She says, very quickly. Doesn't have to reach far for that. It's awful to hear, and Scout has to bite down something nasty to get out reasonable words.

"Why's this so goddamned important to you?" He sighs.

It looks like she wants to say something right away, but dissuades herself from doing so. Slowly, she comes to sit herself up on her elbows, and then fully. He legs swing over the little bed until she's sat up facing him. When she lifts out a hand to take his chin, Scout thinks he must be dreaming.

When she slaps him fully, he knows he is very awake.

"I gave my patience, and you waste my time!" Her voice is grown now, and stronger. "I could have fired you when you were in Chicago. I'm starting to think I should have."

"Miss P-"

"When I think of all the trouble you have caused me. Getting on a goddamned train to Boston. Making half of your team go on a hunger strike. Having to find you a damned replacement..." She turns on him again, eyes blazing. "You want your daughter back. I might not claim to be able to understand that, but I appreciate it all the same. But why do you deserve her?"

Scout's face is very hot. He talks to the floor. "What the _hell_  are you tryin' to say?"

"I'm saying-..." She sighs. "I'm saying that you aren't entitled to your daughter, no matter how strongly you feel you are. You aren't entitled to  _any_ thing. I don't _owe_  you this position. Your brother does not  _owe_  you a chance to change your mind."

"Then what the hell would you have me do?"

"Earn it." She says, very seriously. "Do this for her. All of it."

Slowly, he gets up, disconnects his drip and goes out of the room. Her words halt him at the door, just like the pain of every step as the dogtags around his neck jangle.

"Where are you going, now?"

He smiles to her. Sadly, finally weary after so many days of silence. "To eat." He says.

* * *

The drive up to Dustbowl is incredibly short.

It takes Scout less than twenty minutes to unpack, so he ends up sitting on his bed for a very long time. To others, it would appear he isn't doing anything, but Scout is not inert to the world, and continues to keep thinking. Not just about what Miss Pauling had said, but about his team, too, his friends, who gladly starves for two or three days, just to try to console him. Most of scout's brothers aren't so kind to him.

He sits, for a very long time, aware that in the afternoon, he has his physical.

The first thing he does is shower. The water does wash away everything, and he wants it to. It is too easy to be unhappy. It is too natural, and he is bored with it and tired of it. He will not resign himself to it. Scout tries to wash all of his hatred from his skin, and wash the worst parts of himself from his body, before drying off.

The old uniform is packed with him, and he slips on his RED shirt sheepishly. Oh, man, what he used to be. The fit is very natural, after his days without food, and while Scout doesn't look half as healthy, or even as quick, there's something very empowering about the shirt alone. The polyester blend socks are even of some comfort, and the shoes like old friends.

He does it for her, ever second. He learns to be like a soldier.

The finishing piece is the set of tags. He can't bear to hide them in some drawer. Every time they knock eachother and jingle, it serves as his reminder. Scout doesn't want to forget –he doesn't think he could, but this way, he will always be reminded, even out on the field, that he is not entitled to his job, his life, or anybody's love.

Sniper was right: the world doesn't owe him anything, it doesn't. It was here first.

Miss Pauling greets him outside, look a lot more hale and hearty. Her smile is genuine, and there is gladness to it. She looks him up and down and goes to say something, but stops short, and laughs.

"You know," She says, "The tags aren't part of the regulation uniform."

He doesn't know exactly how to put into words why he wears them. It's exactly the same way he wears the scar that's left, now the staples are all out. Sometimes, scars speak more loudly than the sword that caused them.

They start with routine things. Bleep tests. Speed tests. Core, arms, accuracy, and every time. He hears the tags rattling and tries to jump higher or run faster or shoot sharper. It feels to him that he is slower, and weaker, and less accurate, but goddamnit, he tries anyway, throwing himself at everything she asks until he's weary and done, gasping for breath on the surly ground.

Miss Pauling is looking at him very conflictingly. Everything is documented by her, and when she finishes her writing, she looks at him for a long time before speaking.

"Is that it?" Scout asks he, in a tiny voice.

"That's it." she says, softly. "That's it." And she swallows, her lips pursing for just a second. "You can go no, Mister Weiss. Expect a reply in the morning."

So he goes.

In the night, he has trouble sleeping, but stays firmly in bed, seeking no love from Sniper, or Spy, and doesn't have the malice in him to go to Medic. He goes down to the mess hall to make himself a drink of something, anything, really, and then watches television for half an hour to still his mind. He's still exhausted, but worse than that: he knows for certain that he has failed his tests.

After a while, Pyro joins him on the couch, ever-hidden in the same clothes, and ever-quiet. They sit, both silently watching for a few minutes, before Scout pipes up.

"Y'know, I got a phonecall from my brother yesterday evenin'." He says, softly. "Jeb. I ain't heard his voice in ten years, I swear to you. An' he called me." Pyro cocks it''s head at Scout. Scout cocks his back. "Crazy, ain't it? I don't know how the hell he got the number, but Medic called me down, an' he asked me how I was, an' what I was up to."

Scout laughs.

"What a bastard, I swear. Then he-...then he told me he was proud a' me. Didn't say what for or nothin'. Jus' that he was proud. That I turned out alright, in the end. That was it." Again, softer, he laughs, and shakes his head. "What a bastard."

The mercenary makes some kind of noise at him. Scout interprets it as Pyro wondering if Scout is alright.

"It was nice." Scout says. "I'm glad I spoke to him. Glad I did that." He yawns, and stretches out onto the couch. "Glad I'm here, too."

* * *

The sun does not hesitate in rising in Scout's behalf. He wakes, when the rest of them do, and puts on his uniform, out of show. He doesn't want the others to know he won't be joining them and their colours. He doesn't want their disappointment.

They are all glad to see breakfast. It's not a meal Scout enjoys, but he has a slice of toast for their benefit, and waits about, anxiously, for some bit of paperwork to come through, or for Miss Pauling to appear in the door. When she doesn't, and it's time to start manning the front of base, Scout lingers back, waiting for a sign, waiting for anything.

Eventually, she comes to him in the locker room. But for the ticking clock, they are alone.

"Shouldn't you be joining the rest of RED out there, Mister Weiss?" She asks him, purposefully cryptic. You can hate her for that, if you want. But you can love her, too.

"Like hell I should." Scout laughs, bitterly. "I failed all a' your damn tests."

She doesn't look the least bit perturbed. "Put your headset on."

"But-"

"Put your headset on, Scout. Your team needs you."

He does what she tells him, with haste, and dusts down his uniform before looking at her, serious solemn, and very confused. "I don't understand." He says, after some time has passed. "I failed that damn physical, and you know it."

Miss Pauling smiles at him. There's no way to tell if that's for his benefit, or if the happiness has genuinely been pulled from her. Scout doesn't want to question her, but presses, because he must.

"Miss P-" He flounders. "I failed. Aren't you supposed to –I don't know, send me home?"

She places her arms akimbo, and shrugs. "What I'm  _supposed_  to do is none of your business." She says, firmly. "Of course you failed. Certainly you did. Now get going."

Scout laughs. "What does that mean?"

She nudges him with her clipboard. "It means 'get to work, Mister Weiss. I'll most likely fire you in the morning'."

At her word, then, he goes. He goes out into the terrible sunlight and does his job for the beauty he is hopelessly impaled by: by Moira, and Miss P, and the rest of them. He has his future, and his girl will be waiting. Every day, she tells him, she'll most likely fire him in the morning.

But, you know, she never does.

_(fanmix can be found[here](http://pyroness.tumblr.com/post/58938387062/download-listen-01-dirge-instrumental), along with a stunning graphic. especially stunning to me because it incorporates my favourite line from this entire piece 'look at me now'. what's yours?)_

 


	29. IXXX

_(massive apologies for the wait, and for me, and massive thank-yous all round to anybody who who said a word in the smallest capacity. keep sharp, kids -while this is the end of one project,, it is by no means the last project i'll do. something in the works, i swear.)_

When it ends, and it was always going to, it's Miss Pauling that drives him to the airport.

This is some three years after Moira: when RED and BLU finally disintegrate, getting swallowed in some type of bind in TF industries–Scout never cares to learn, but he cares to go. After all, what he has waiting for his back in Boston is no prettier than an empty base.

For all of his time spent here, Scout doesn't care how it sounds. These men –these strange and foolish and gallant men are his family, and to lose them is to lose parts of himself.

When he had started he was barely twenty and as American as apple pie: as American as his own ignorance and short-sightedness and his own cocky attitude. He hadn't been able to speak a word of anything –barely his native tongue, and didn't care to learn. Now, Scout leaves with German and French words filling his pockets, the knowledge of how to make a barbeque, or how to fix a broken fanbelt, or where the hell Scotland is on a map.

He leaves inherently wary of people, but hopelessly in love with them, too.

They say their last goodbye one night, as a team, at base in Teufort. Everything is empty as hell –the clocks are all taken down, the thousands of little rooms are unlocked and devoid of anything but paint. Worst of all, there are no weapons, no half-broken television set, no ripped couch in the Rec room. There is no trace of them ever being there, and it kills him. It kills him but he smiles anyway.

They swap addresses and photographs and memories. It's-...it isn't something Scout enjoys. He's laughing with them, and smiling, too, but the finality of it is wounding. In his last few weeks at school, everybody suddenly became so friendly to one another, old grudges put aside, bad blood drained and all the rest of it. Even the fencing team put up with him again, not because anything was better, but because they felt they had to, as if to be remembered fonder. It was so false, and surface, and awful.

It's comforting, then, even in some small capacity to know that these men who do not have to like him really do love him.

Scout will miss them. He'll miss their arguments: their blunt wits and everything they have tried to teach him. Ever since he can remember, Scout has been the youngest, and therefore, the one on whom everybody's philosophies are forced. Here, home, at RED, he's heard all of their philosophies on about everything. They mean more than years of service, and more than any contract or fine print could.

The evening doesn't last forever –it doesn't have the grace to, and Sniper is the first to leave. He says his goodbyes hurriedly, as if he has somewhere to be. And maybe he does–maybe Scout is just taking it personally when the man goes to everybody else first: even Spy.

The goodbye Sniper shares with Spy is interesting. See, Sniper shakes everybody else's hands, all distant, and cool. Tells them he is glad to have met them, but only because he as to, and moves on. When he reaches Spy, they hug, very briefly, with Spy lingering a little more, as if trying to hold onto the man's scent.

"I'm sorry." Sniper tells him, very softly. "I'm sorry about me."

Jesus, Spy isn't ready to hear that. He never would be, and for a second it looks as if he has nothing at all left: no oxygen in his lungs or witticisms ready. After that second, though, he manages a little breath, and an even smaller smile. Without saying anything, he nods. And that's it, over.

Scout thinks the bastard will just walk right by him, too, and so grabs Sniper's arm, like a child. He doesn't want to be forgotten.

"Hey." He says, in an odd voice. Once more, he tugs on sniper's arm to bring the man to a complete stop. "Hey, you ain't gonna walk out jus' yet, right?"eventually Sniper does swing around a little, so to come face-to-face with Scout, even if they never will be eye-to-eye. He is awful, he is, but beautiful, too, and Scout isn't sure if this won't hurt him. By no intent or doing of his own, Sniper still has the boy shackled to him by that strange, barnacled Atlantic cable. "Sniper?"

The man sighs, and looks everywhere but him. "I have to go. I have to catch my plane."

"You don't even-" Scout's voice is miniscule. It gets caught in his mouth and his tongue snaps back into his skull. It takes a few seconds more before he can speak again, fully. "You don't even have the time to say goodbye?"

"I said goodbye." Sniper hedges.

"No." Scout shoves him. "No, you make up a goodbye for me." It has been calm for so long: Scout can't say exactly why he this is getting to him now. This moment was always going to come. Always. And yet, like a man greeting death, eternity has not prepared him. How very human indeed.

Sniper lays a hand on his shoulder, a war, soft hand, and sighs. "Don't get all worked up, alright? Just calm down."

"No."Scout smacks his hand off. It's only in hearing it said that he realises the problem: that in these some three years he has been calm, and passive and peaceful. Too peaceful, and now every single word he had ever wanted to say is coming up at once, a big wet wad of emotion coming up to choke him. "Don't you tell me to calm down. You make up a goodbye for me. You owe me that."

"Scout-"Sniper lets the breath trail off without another word. On his next, he expands the thought. "Kid, I really gotta go."

"I know." Scout says, kicking ta the carpet, staring at it. "An' this is the best you can do, is it?"

They could be there for years, arguing for it, dragging it out. Scout isn't like Spy, graceful, haunted. He isn't that noble, or brave, and he will bleed the stone dry if he has to. Truth is, Scout would, too, but he's tired of the man. Done with him. They have been 'professional' for too long, even on weekends where he drives picks Scout up from the airport, photographs and sloppily drawn pictures clutches to him, the boy crying hard, but silently against the window.

They are men of action. Lies do not serve them.

"I don't want to leave it like this, Scout." Sniper tells him. "But I do have to go."

Scout swallows. He shrugs, and tries to be as nonchalant as he can. "So go." He says.

The bastard takes him at his word.

Scout doesn't even have time to recover. He thinks maybe his eyes are glistening a little, and he's really like another drink to wash away the sandy feeling in his throat, but gets no chance, because Demo is saying goodbye to him right then and there. The hug winds him hard and allows him a second to get his thoughts together. By the time Demo has pulled back, this hazy grin on the man's face, Scout thinks he might survive.

"I'll miss ya, ya wee bastard."

And the thing is, without thinking, Scout can only be honest. "I'll-"He breathes in. "I'll miss you too, man." Because, even without truly knowing it, consciously at least, he will. These men he surrounds himself with, not by choice, have become his family, his furniture of the heart. Even men he thought of as inconsequential, even Demo, are a part of his life, here, and to lose them is to lose that part. Of course Scout will miss him. There is no doubt about that.

"Take care of yourself," He says, even finding himself trite. "Don't–don't disappear on me, yeah?"

But Demo has already said his goodbyes, and like the one before him and so many after him, he goes. Just like that. Come and gone, with some part of Scout's life. They will carry it off in pieces, never to be reconstructed.

Scout thinks, he might well need to be reconstructed, already in tatters, and yet, more goodbyes are due, and by the time he feels he has re covered, sorrowful with rum and coke, it's due to have another piece taken, and lose another member of the team. He knows that one of them are inconsequential. Not one, but he realises this too late.

Engineer is the next to go.

He gives Scout this dignified handshake which is all strength and sincerity, and the look in the man's eyes is real. This means something to him, too, even if he is reluctant to say quite what. Scout looks him hard in the face for answers, but doesn't have the gall to demand. The older man does the talking, then.

"I know we ain't always seen eye-to-eyes, about –hell, about much at all." That much is true enough to get a laugh out of the boy –what feels like the last of his life in the moment. He's scared he'll never laugh again. These people are his compass –his north, and without them he'll lose the directions for how to go up. "But you were a damn fine kid, and you're an even finer man."

Scout is many things, but he doesn't consider himself to be fine in any way. He simply is. Struck, tongue snapping back into his skull, he manages a breathy, "Thanks, man."

"If you got any practical problems that need solvin', well, you know where to find me." the man gives him another sunny smile, too sunny for the like of Teufort, for this bitter evening. Where once it was July all year round, under the reign of a Sun Giant, Scout finds himself cold. He appreciates Engineer's words.

"I'll hold you to it." he attempts levity, knowing himself too proud for help, and too stubborn for hypocrisy. "An' you're always gonna be welcome at my place."

"I'll hold you to that, too, son."

No. Scout doesn't want him to be able to leave. There must be something keeping them here, because there's something preventing him from entertaining the damn notion of just going. Yet, he knows, staying would only make him feel lonelier. It takes a reminder that leaving is supposed to be good –cathartic, even, and if he stays there will be nothing here prettier than Fenway all covered in Autumn leaves.

But he can't stop Engineer, and thus with a nod, the man parts.

Scout can't stand to stay –or to go, or to tolerate the moment much longer. At the door, at last, his angel appears, Miss Pauling with her keys jangling and her eyes all sad: this place is her life, and it's funny how the fine print has a way of destroying such things. Scout knows, then, that he has to go. His things are packed in her little convertible, and his plane ticket in burning a hole in his jacket.

Leaving is good, he knows, but goodbye is bad. Ma always used to say 'the sweets taste sweeter with a bite of the bitter'.

He puts down his glass and tries to make it wordlessly and soundless across the room, avoiding his goodbyes, refusing absolutely to believe this is the last time he will see any of them. No, he'll have his place, and his orchard, and his Moira, and they'll all be welcome. This sacrifice he's made, or this loss he has suffered-...it cannot all be for nothing.

A hand on his back like a bullet halts him. Spinning around, petrified, Scout finds love alive again in Medic's glance.

It took a long time -too long a time, for the ferocity of that gaze to fade to what it is now, glowing embers. No fire to burn down what stands of both of their loves and lives, but enough that they are kept warm by it. Now all of Medic's ferocity is left for another man, a better one, who will not suffer him the cruelty of an implicit heartbreak.

"Are you leaving us?" The man's voice is all soft. "Without saying goodbye?"

At his arm, hands locked like political statements, Heavy brings his attentions to the boy.

"Time to go?"

Scout nods. He tells himself it, too, because he needs the discipline."Yeah," His voice is weak. "Time to go."

The others present hear it, and that only makes it worse, because it's Soldier who makes it so Scout first.

"Going absent without leave? Are you Italian?" So Socut snaps around to face him, prepared for some kind of rant, or assault.

With this look of begrudging respect, the man snaps into a proper gait and salutes Scout, hard and sincere –something Scout has never seen him do to anybody, ever. It's usually a demand, rather than a gesture, but Scout takes it all the same, and salutes back.

"I didn't like you when you joined us, boy." The man says, in that hard voice of his. "I wanted soldiers, and they sent me a girlscout." The man's arm comes to rest at his side once more and he cracks a very slight smile. Scout knows him well enough, just about to not only notice it, but appreciate it fully. "You really made something of yourself."

"Thank-"

"I am not done!" The man cries, his chest swaying with passion. "You will know when I am done." After another pause, the man continues."I never liked hippies or flits. Where I come from, they aren't fit to wear the uniform. You are not a flit anymore than Doc is. You're a fine RED soldier, and it was been an honour serving with you."

That is the way to leave somebody properly. Scout is all choked up by that. And this man –this delusion, neurotic, patriotic, stubborn man has looked past what so many others before him have not. That is the greatest honour Scout has been bestowed with thus far, save his daughter, and his freedom.

"Thanks, chief." Scout murmurs, eventually. Behind him, Pyro is wringing it's hands nervously, glancing up at Scout as if unworthy of words or actions to articulate the moment. It's that sorry-for-itself kind of thing that makes Scout feel even worse, and he doesn't know what to do aside from hug his teammate for all the times they sat wordlessly beside eachother tolerating RED's piss-poor TV reception, and for all the times Pyro listened. Just listened, offering no ways out of solutions. It has always been as simple as that.

"Jesus," Scout murmurs. "I'll miss you, man, I will." But he knows, truthfully, that there will always be something.

He cannot linger on Pyro for too long, because for some reason, to see Pyro makes him saddest of all. It really depresses him. So they shakes hands, like 'men', or some abstract idea of men, and he has to move on to a love too noble to be for him.

Medic kisses him as if they have never kissed before, quick and chaste, but his undercurrents that Scout could drown in.

"Oh, what'll you do?" Medic says, with a shaking voice.

Scout tries to laugh it off. "I'm a smart kid." Scout assures him. "There'll be something." But it isn't enough, not for a man like medic – a scientist with all of the wrong metaphors. "Hey, don't you worry about me. I'll keep in touch."

"Don't-" Medic's laugh is so tragic. "Don't forget about me, will you, junge?" But he is turned away slightly. It makes it seem as if he doesn't really care at all, despite the vulnerability in his voice.

"O'course I won't. Scout assures him once more. "We ain't done seein' eacother, alight?"

"Alright." Medic nods, and Scout wonders if he cares even slightly when he sees the man's shoulders sagging. His next sentence is so weak and powerful that Scout knows it to be true as a heart condition must be, because in front of all of them, Medic is brazenly crying. "I'll write you."

"You better." Scout says, striving, trying his best not to falter and cry himself –he has come so far. What distracts him, mercifully, is one of Heavy's colossal hands at rest on his shoulders.

"Stay away from trouble, lettle man. Talk less. This will help."

Scout nods. "I'll sure as hell try." And then, softer. "I'll –I'll miss you guys. I don't know-"

But that is all the time he is ever given, and every word he should have said, every compliment of grace of pledge of faith or apology: every damn 'please' or 'thankyou' he has ever passed haunts him, stuck into his head like a poisonous dart and it kills him. It really does. The drive to the airport in a silence so thick that Miss Pauling herself can barely stand it.

After eternities without sound, they pull up, and she looks at him.

"Goodluck to you, Mister Weiss." She says, as if automatically, or scripted, before a hair falls into her face, and when she brushes it away her cheeks are all red. "I'm horrified to say I'll miss you."

Scout leans over her rolled-down window and grins. "How about a kiss then, Miss P?" He croons. There are tears in his eyes –he has lost the directions for how to go up. They were his north, they were, and he's lost them.

She laughs at him.

"I'd settle for your name. Your  _real_  name." He looks at her honestly. "For old time's sake?"

She thinks about driving away then, she really does, and leaving him stranded, but Scout is too good for that, and he is an investment –a friend, despite her best intentions.

"What does it matter?" She asks him. Really, after all of this time, it might well be superfluous. But still, he presses.

"Do you trust me?"

she looks hard at him.

"Miss P, do you trust me?"

And after what is too long to describe well, she caves, because for Scout, too many often do. She will one day chalk it up to the tears drying in his eyes, the vacancy –he will say it is how he looked in the light.

"Jennifer." She says, quietly. "My name is Jennifer Pauling."

"Well, then." Scout grins at her, looking suddenly less lost. He sniffs, and tries his most winning smile. "How 'bout a kiss, Jenny?"  
  
How about a kiss?

* * *

With the last of them gone, their cigarette smoke hanging in the air like friendly ghosts, Scout empties the tip jar, and pours himself a drink.

The quiet is a nice reprieve, with only the hum of the generators and the distance of the jukebox, which he has become so desensitised to, he must focus even to nice it. It's a Springfield ballad, one that he doesn't mind so much. The sway in the music is nice to move to, as he clears away the last of the glasses, and ashtrays.

There are a few stray balls left on the pool table. Resting his lowball glass on the corner, Scout picks up a cue resting on the felt and makes a bridge of his hand, potting a yellow. The sound of it disappearing into the belly of the table is low and satisfying, but does not do enough to drown up the footsteps hurrying down his stairs. They patter around the corridor and a small face appears, just above the bar.

Without looking around, Scout lays the cue back on the felt and picks up his glass. "Daddy?" He takes a sip, and allows the call to continue unanswered. "Daddy, when did you finish?"

He puts the glass back on the pool table and comes over to the bar very slowly. "Not so loud." He says, "Jus' now, sweetheart."

"But you said-"

"Hey, not so loud. You want to wake somebody up?" It's as if she only registers the words now, and the girl nods, all solemn, before continuing, perhaps quieter, but just as sunny. The girl is wide awake.

"You said you'd let me ring the bell for the last round." A set of tiny hands clamp the edge of the bar, and on her tiptoes, the girl glares at him over the polished wood. "You did. You  _said_  so."Boy, she really is wide-awake. Scout knows he's going to have a hell of a time getting peace tonight.

"Now, wait a second." He protests, only to realise a second later that he is reasoning with a child. "I told you that you could ring the bell when it was before bedtime. You should'a been asleep an hour ago."

This time, the girl stomps around the bar and clambers up onto a barstool." No, you didn't say that. You  _pro_ mised me I could ring the bell." She glares up at him with his mother's eyes, and Scout doesn't say anything about it, or about the animation of her movements, because she's a very emotional child, she really is.

"C'mon, don't be silly. You can ring it tomorrow night if you really want."He tries to appease he, but to no avail.

"But you  _pro_ mised tonight, Daddy –you said-"

"Would you keep your voice down?" Scout says, exasperated. "I know what I said, alright? But it's late now, and you're supposed to be asleep." Slowly, he gets up from the barstool and goes around to behind the bar,crouching, and sifting through something the girl cannot see.

"You're  _never_  going to let me, are you?" The girl says, very bitterly, twirling slightly on the stool. " _Ne_ ver."Her voice is obscured with petulance.

"Tomorrow, I said, didn't I?"

"But you said I could ton _ight_ , and you  _lied_ -"

Scout has never much liked it when people speak about his honesty. Because he is a liar, really, a con artist, and anyone who smiles through pain is, too. The fact that it's regarded as something so despicable is the real crime. But he doesn't say that. No, he uses the words of another woman.

"Don't you test me. Or I'll send you upstairs right goddamn now."

But it seems he isn't provoked enough for the girl to be satisfied, so she plays her sharpest sword. " _He_  never used to send me-"

"Elizabeth!"The sudden shout, and the hands slamming down onto the countertop scare the girl more than anything on this earth could, and she whimpers, making herself smaller and sorrier on the stool. Where she had swung her sword, she did not foresee so much blood. Still resting, palms on the counter, Scout is staring at the grain of the wood, as if numb. It takes him some time to face her calmly. Rationally.

The trouble with children is how malicious they are, not by intent, but purely by happenstance.

"Elizabeth, please..." He says, quietly. "Would'ja just get into bed, for me?" Thus, with a sigh, he straightens. His girl crawls off of the stool and makes a mad beeline for the corridor, to the foot of the stairs, not looking at him. Just like her father, she is something fierce, but terribly emotional, too, and when she likes it, can be as snotty as hell.

Scout knows Elizabeth doesn't mean to be nasty, so he grabs three or so old magazines from under the bar, and gets to the foot of the stairs, just as she reaches the top.

"You want me to bring you something to drink when I come up?" He smiles at her. "Like, an apple juice, or a milk, or-"

"Could I have tea?" just when Scout thinks she has run out of ways to surprise him. He is haunted by people, always, but he loves them, too.

"I guess." He laughs. "I mean, I don't see why  _not_. So long as you brush your teeth afterwards an' all." she stays there, in her little blue pyjamas, looking at him. Jesus, Scout loves her. He does, because she is worse than he is, and infinitely better. By any name, her sentiment is around his neck. There's cleaning up to be done in the bar downstairs, but Scout isn't in a hurry. "You want a bedtime story?" He lifts up the magazines to show her. "I got some  _good_  ones."

Elizabeth kicks at the carpet and shrugs. "Sally Haynes said I was too old for bedtime stories." She says, quietly, as if brining up some awful memory. Scout shrugs.

"Well,"he says, trying to assure her as best he can. "Sally Haynes has obviously never heard of-" Quickly, he gives the titles a glance,"-Archie Andrews and the Two-Gun kid, has she, now?"

Elizabeth continues to be unconvinced. She shrugs again. "Will you do the voices?"

"Sure, I'll do the voices."

"Awright then." She says, trying to hide the joy in her voice. "I didn't mean to upset you, Daddy."

Scout finds it hard to be a good, objective father to her when he feels so constantly guilty. For failing her in her earliest years, and for not being better somehow –for not being the man on the screen. They have it good though, he reminds himself, and he'll never lose her again. There's nobody left to lose her to.

"You didn't upset me, sweetheart. Everythin's alright." And he waves a hand. "Now get in bed. I won't be long."

So up she goes, hopping a little. He watches her all the way up, before sighing again, and walking back out into the bar area. Now that she's gone, he lights a cigarette, all one-handed that he learned from a graceful stranger, once, and sits down on the same barstool. The day has exhausted him, but it will be over soon.

On the countertop, at the end, is the slim little white phone that he really considers sliding over and using –he could do to hear Spy's voice, but doesn't know what time it will be with the man, and knows that however it is instigated, they aren't done seeing eachother, and won't be for a long time. In the end, he decides against it, for his own sake.

The jukebox fills the empty air of the bar. Scout faces the bar and smokes with purpose. After a while, still thinking of his Elizabeth, his girl, he lifts the hem of his shirt with a curious hand and lets his eyes find where the stitches were. It has healed so much, and it's only out of knowing that he can place it so easily. It has gotten better with time.

Three-quarters through the cigarette, his door goes, the bell jingling, and he it reminds him he has yet to lock up. Without looking up, he stubs out the cigarette in the glass ashtray and says, "Sorry, pal, we're closed."

There is more shuffling behind him, but no move to exit. There's an easy way, and a hard way: it's clear people have a great difficulty selecting the easy way.

"You hear me, pal? Bar's closed."

The jukebox switches out to something nicer, only made more central by the lack of noise from behind Scout. The guy makes no move to leave, or even put a hand on the door, and it's getting tiresome. All Scout wants really, is to go upstairs and read to his daughter and sleep–Jesus, he just wants to sleep.

"I-...I'm not thirsty."

The voice goes through him like a .45 calibre. It goes through and his open mouth is the exit wound because it will all come out if he doesn't collect himself.

"Goddamn." He says, very quietly. And rises, stubbing out the cigarette, and putting a new one in his mouth, because he is scared, and it will calm him, help him: save him. "I knew –I didn't know when, but I  _knew_  I weren't finished with you."

Finally, pained, he manages to turn around, first seeing a very dusty pair of shoes, and then long legs, just as brittle and skinny. Scout doesn't want to remember his touch or his body, and skips to the man's eyes. They are every part as fierce, and maybe that makes it worse.

So, for a second, they just look at eachother. And Scout puts a hand on the bar and sighs, exhaustedly. "I think you should go."

"I figured you'd say that." The stranger says, so goddamn calmly, so coolly that it makes Scout angry. How can he be afforded the kindness of still waters when Scout can barely see out of the waters of his own eyes? His safe and familiar structures wobble before his own eyes and the form before him is unrecognisable, never his.

Anger rising, Scout snaps back around and drags hard on the cigarette. "So go." He snaps.

And then, the splinter of regret in the man's voice starts to bleed. He says, "I did."

Scout stopped using his name as a prayer long ago. And that god will have to ask for his forgiveness, instead.

But Sniper continues in practically the same breath. "I did go. I walked outta the damn door, and I'm sorry. I owed you more than that."

Against the wood, robbed of all breath, Scout stares bleakly up and laugh, despite the rot inside of him. "Was it somethin' I said?" He manages a laugh.

"Yeah," Sniper moves forward, slowly, like water, and takes up a seat next to Scout. "Y'said 'so go'. With such disdain, you know..?"

He turns to look towards Scout as if he's some semblance of sorry, or any other bullshit like that, and his lips are every bit as kissable, and his face is every bit as familiar, only weathered slightly more, and it makes Scout lose it. The man goes to say something, and Scout punches him. Punches him hard enough that Sniper goes to the floor.

"I learned to hate you in the last five years!" Now standing, Scout brandishes his hand, throbbing with the dull ache of years apart, surrenders, resigned to a fate he would once have damned. The feeling is like memory, of all those days under the Sun Giant of Teufort, tearing through others worth a damn living. He knows he's shouting, he does, and it doesn't matter to him anymore.

Slow on the response, Sniper looks up, as if this is what he expected, to find love like violence, more pure and true and nasty than the rest of humanity, and it leaves them as non-believers smouldering in the cornfields. "I didn't mean for it to get that far-"

"I was a kid! I was in love with you, for Chrissake –it was wrong an' you knew it!" Now there are tears burning in the corners of his eyes but Scout won't dare allow himself to be put on the backfoot, or to be treated like some woman: emotional, hysterical –silly.

Wiping blood from his nose, sniper goes to stand, shaky on the bar, and shakes his head. "You seemed to know what you were getting' into."

It is difficult to believe, but even more so to hear. Scout feels very hot and very numb, and he is frozen, paralysed with anger. "I wasn't even twenty when you fucked me the first time. But, sure, I knew what I was doin', an' you didn't mean to let it get that far. Didn't mean to keep doin' it. Didn't mean to-"

"You think I'm proud of myself?" Sniper is standing properly, and bleeding quite profusely, too. Scout think, well, let him bleed. Let it hurt, for all the years he has rotted Scout's insides to something toxic like a splinter in his finger, leaving him wanting.

No, instead, he comes to lean against the bar, covering his eyes, ashamed. "D'you know...what you did to me, to my life?"

Sniper looks at him. "I can only say I'm sorry so many times, Scout."

That makes Scout hysterical for sure, and he throws his head back, obnoxious with laughter, and bites his tongue at the back of his mouth. "Well, say it again anyway, yeah? Do that for me." after a while, it dies down into misery again, and Scout finds himself at a loss. "You're  _sorry_  for what you did, yeah? Like I'm sorry for believin' you, an' for draggin' anybody else into our mess. We're all sorry for somethin'."

He reaches over the bar and grabs himself the bottle of Taliska Single Malt, not because he especially likes it, but it will wash Sniper's name from his mouth, and the man's memory from his throat. The burn on his lips is pleasant, and it gives him something else to think about. There are eternities within eternities and so much undiscovered like the ocean floor, but it's as dark as the highway that takes scout back to Sniper, every time.

It's different, now. Scout finds himself more passive than ever.

"This your place?" the question has Scout's attention. He drops his cigarette a little and turns to look at Sniper, still handsome, even bloody, just as his memory has served him. Moved, but on the defensive, he rises slowly and gets one of the cloths to wipe down the bar, handing it to his guest.

"For your face. I ain't sorry for that." then, Scout sits down next to him and resumes smoking. The question is left, for a moment, before he addresses it."Yeah, this is my place, an' you ain't welcome here."

"It's nice." Sniper nods.

For a second, Scout squints at him very hard, as if to decipher the man before hi, or at least predict a behaviour based on the past. It's not a silly thing to do, for this is the calm after the storm, a distant memory of more ammoniac airs. But he cannot draw a firm conclusion out of the chaos. "What the hell did you come here to see, exactly?"

Sniper lowers his rag, face a little cleaner, and sighs. "I want –no, I need us to be even."

Scout thinks about punching him again for that, and flares up, too, only to have his fist caught by a lucid Sniper, who shakes his head as if in warning. Then, all Scout can do is laugh, so hard, because of how ridiculous they are –both of them. Time and death makes Strange Bedfellow of almost everybody. And from this, he is not exempt.

"I stopped wantin' you a while ago. Come back tomorrow, pally."

That doesn't appease Sniper at all, and he leans forward, as if put out. "Scout-"

"This is my place. Mine. An' when I say come back tomorrow, that's your cue to goddamned leave. Now, would ya kindly-"

Sniper looks at him again. "A day won't make a difference."

"Come back tomorrow."

"Why?"

Scout cracks a smile again, but with more agenda. He smokes again, and blows out a very messy ring. "'Cause I said so, that's why." As if his word ever counted for that much, if anything. Scout can't remember most of the things he said to Sniper at one time or another, he has had time to forget, and more things to remember -and yet still somehow remembers that the combination to Sniper's locker is keyed to the date of Australia Day and it kills him to think about it, it really does.

But unlike the past, and his memoories, Scout is not met with a fight, but some more dignified nod, slow as it may be, and Sniper starts to walk towards the door. He thinks –no, he goes one better, and hopes that's it. That it'll be over. It's the same with any of them, because just as soon as Socut would die if he saw Medic again, all doe-eyed and sad, he'd die if he didn't, too.

Over his shoulder, smug as hell, Scout grins. "See you tomorrow, slugger."

It ashould be over. That shoulder be it, easy as that, painless as that, but it never could be. Scout thinks Sniper is done, just as he is, when the smallest voice in the room freezes them both.

"Daddy?"

Both of them turn, alarmed, at a face peering over the bar. Or just about, anyway. The girl's nose just about makes itself visible above the wood, but her eyes are the salient, and it only takes one look to know to whom she belongs, blood or otherwise. Her hair is black, too, not brown, but that kind of tarry black that steals light like stars.

For some reason, some strange and fleeting moment, scout dares to feel embarrassed. "What did I tell you? I told you to get into bed, goddamnit."

Worst of all is that curious look on Sniper's face, deepened only more when the girl comes around the bar to face her father, shivering, her seven-year-old body illuminated through hard light. There's no hint of Australia in her, not a bit, and not of French suns and phrases like 'regardez-moi maintenant'.

"This must be Moira." Sniper says, voice just as slight, and he walks forward again, going into a slight crouch, and leaning forward. It takes Scout and his girl both a moment to realize Sniper is offering a hand to shake. Timid as a child is, but with a trembling enthusiasm, she comes forward. Her hand is engulfed entirely by his.

"Elizabeth," She says, softly. "My name's Elizabeth. Moira's my granny." It only serves to confuse Sniper even more, and he straightens, wetting his upper-lip nervously. He doesn't get to ask, because the girl has more pressing questions.

"You woke Jenny up. Who are you?"

That seems to be it. Sniper doesn't even get to ask about the 'J' in Jenny before Scout cuts in, entering the fray with the kind of intensity that doesn't belong, even as he strives for normalcy in his tone.

"What did I say? What the hell'd I say?" He raises a finger at his girl. "This ain't a negotiation, Elizabeth, get upstairs. Now."

Elizabeth doesn't like that a bit. Her chest swells in defiance, and she looks Scout squarely in the face. It's in those moments that he cannot doubt what part of her is his. Because, what feels like forever ago, he was standing, just as defiant, against those who would do him the greatest of injustices.

The girl remains unafraid. "Well," She begins, haughtily. "Joshua in my class doesn't have to go to bed until nine-thirty, and that's not fair. Why is he allowed to stay up late, and not me? I've been really good, I have, and I didn't-"

She's flustered with indignation, breathless at this point, and Scout finds her more ally than enemy, despite her naivety. It's funny that she draws the same conclusions he did, years ago, under a different sky.

"Elizabeth, sweetheart, life ain't fair. It ain't. You want to take it up with Joshua-in-your-class's parents, y'can. But I told you to get to bed a goddamn hour ago." He finds himself sighing, arms akimbo, slightly defeated by his day, and his memories. "Now, upstairs, awright?"

She kicks at the floor. "Awright." And then, as she trails off, shoulders slumped. "G'night, mister."

When the last of her footfalls has echoed up the staircase and the quiet falls, for a few seconds, Sniper finds himself boneless against the pool table, one hand steadying him, one trying to keep his head from spinning.

"Christ, does she look like you." The man says, laughing. It sounds golden, and happy, and at some point Scout would have bled to hear it. Now, the sound comforts him faintly annoyed.

"You ain't got any rights to look at her." He snaps. "She 'ain't your problem', remember?"

Sniper is quicker to bite back, and every bit as passionate. "Jesus, kid, you aren't half bitter." He says, breathlessly. "I'd hoped you'd have moved on a little."

"I have!" Desperately, Scout counters him. "I went far away and I got my own place and my life and you ain't a part of either. What the hell d'you come here for?"

Sniper looks very intensely at him for five or so minutes, exhausting him with the gaze, before shifting to a more neutral position. Slowly and shakily, he exhales like a prayer and looks at the clock behind Scout's head briefly before going on to use words.

"I was in London a few weeks back, for a job. Nothin' fancy, just an in-and out, you know? An' of all people, I run into Spook. I was set to fly out when he asked me for a drink. I didn't have any intentions, or anything like that. It was just -…it was nice, you know?"

"I know." Scout sighs. "I know nice."

"right," Sniper doesn't meet his eyes for that remark. "I'd missed him. I had. An' it turns out he'd missed me, too. I thought –I thought something would happen. Turns out he's got a few stipulations, before it does."

It appears like Scout's time is being wasted, which, admittedly, isn't new, but isn't pleasant, either.

"He wanted to be…" it's paining hi, but out it comes, slowly, slowly, like a knife from the back of an innocent man. "He wanted to be sure that there's nothing between us anymore."

Without any grace or mourning period, Scout laughs at him, and thinks about that Atlantic cable, long since severed. It remains a memory at the bottom of the ocean floor, and nothing more. "Wish granted," Scout says, refusing the man's presence. Off, off, eely tentacle! "There is nothin' between us."

"No," Sniper tells him. "No, that isn't what I want to ask."

Of everything, what could he possibly ask?

"Look, you know Spook. He ain't keen on getting hurt at all: least of all by the same guy twice." That's true enough, it really is. Spy is not like Scout in any capacity, or like Medic, or any other man that could get his dirty little hands on something beautiful, and tear it to shreds. Spy cares, foremost, about himself, and thus, it's rare that something destroys him. It's only though the way Scout saw them stare at eachother, with enough ferocity to engulf RED in flames, that something did destroy the man. And it was Sniper. "So, he found you in the directory, and told me he needed a second opinion."

Scout sneers. "Didn't have a clue he thought so highly a' my word." And then, softer, his compassion betrays his frosty exterior. "Is he –I mean, how is he? Spy?"

It's awkward. It is, so Scout comes back around the bar and pours them both two glasses of Taliska, for the hell of it. He's got enough to last, and it isn't as if Scout is struggling to get by. As if invited cordially, Sniper sits on the barstool in front of him and nods, thankful for the drink.

"Spy's well. He hasn't changed all that much."

"Neither have you."

"Well," Sniper laughs, and takes a nip of the drink. One hand gets placed on the bar absently. "You changed plenty. You ain't a kid no more."

That's as true as can be, but that's what five years does for a person. While he still has that awkward leanness of youth, Scout's face is still youthful and full of character, and his eyes are still blue when skies are grey. He's every bit as striking, there's no doubt. It's only the circumstance he's found in that it most profound.

"So, who's Jenny?"

Scout lowers his glass at that and coughs, nervously. "Ain't nobody."

"C'mon," sniper jests, "I heard the kid. You got another one up there, or a girl?" It makes Scout nervous, for this isn't a territory he longs to stray into. So, blasé, he waves a hand.

"It's the kid's gerbil, for Chrissake. What's it to you?"

The man leans back in his chair as if hurt. "It isn't anything. I was just asking." And then, softly, softly, as a secret is murmured. "Your girl looks just like him."

He means Medic, and Scout knows it. Faintly, he nods. "He's up in Nova Scotia with Heavy now. I hear they're happy."

"Quite right, too." Sniper wets his lips again and drinks a little more. He is struggling with things to fill the air with. "How long d'you have Elizabeth for, then?"

Scout looks at him blankly.

"Is it for a school holiday or something?" And then Scout clams up.

Scout thinks about hands. About bedsides, goodbyes, diagnosis, frailty. He recalls holding hands cold as a corpse's and trying to picture open highway, dirt track, the moon. Small streets, crying, boxes, memories...Ma. Ma holding hands with the little girl and crying, whispering to him, "Somethin' awful's happened."

"She lives here." Scout says, tiredly. He looks down at his countertop and thinks about chestnut hair falling out over the pillow, about last words, and it hurts him.

"Lives here? I thought your brother raised her." Sniper is rounding his accusation into a question, the wheels of realisation start turning like a car engine turning over, like a Weiss spinning in his grave and all of a sudden it becomes too much. "Scout?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," He says, voice as skinny as he is. But they never let sleeping dogs lie until they are the bottom of an ocean somehow, sinking like hard marbles in a fishtank, like bowling balls in an ocean-

"What happened to him? To Danny?" It gets louder and louder until it is nothing at all but piercing, screaming at him, and every convulsive twist of his gut harrows him –what has he let himself become? "Scout, what happened to-"

"Danny's-" And then his voice dies, at long last, into a quiver that sounds proud, and so it should. Where his pride is still red-raw from burning, from pain, love says not a word. For, though they tried, though he endeavoured, he could not save.

Love could not save.

At last, the words find themselves. "Danny died. He –...he died  _early_."

He thinks of Danny's hands, so brittle and pale and thin. How the man sat across from him, thin as a sewing-needle, trying to knock back the last glass of wine he would ever drink, and daring to offer Scout the remnants of food on his plate –which was most of it.

Scout's thinner than he was, see, thinner than ever because inheritance is accidental and he sat across from Danny for four years, watching the man, absorbing his habits, and now he barely touches his own food for fear that he will take up space he is not entitled to –the last three times he used his telephone, he started with the word 'sorry', the last meal he had, he didn't listen to a word Elizabeth said because he was wondering, hard, if Danny would've eaten just another cut of fish.

He finds himself at odd with Sniper, with all of it. This life he has, this wonderful, imperial affliction has left him strange. Looking at Sniper, he finds his past a book reading in reverse, leaving him gradually more confused. Once he was a bright boy, and now he is the tattooed lady, and he won't be able to sleep until the rest of the world it tattooed, either.

There is silence, the likes of which only seen in an operating theatre. Scout finds his voice once more.

"We buried him four years ago." He says, breathlessly. "He ain't in pain no more."

There are no tears. Four years of dehydration will do that to you. The first night, Elizabeth crawled to his bones and they cried so hard the stars died –that they woke with body bags under their eyes, and since, he has said not a word either way. But Sniper knows him as a boy, not as a man, and finds himself confused.

"I'm sorry." Sniper says, earnestly. "I didn't mean to bring it up."

Waving a hand, Scout comes to lean heavy on the bar. His bar. "Look at me now, man: I'm awright. You didn't know. No, I don't blame you a bit." And then, a very faint smile. "No, I blame leukaemia."

There is another sigh, and Scout thinks of the millions of things he would rather discuss, what he'd rather suffer, not to revisit a sunken treasure of suffering. So, trying to pull away from Sniper's surprise and apprehensions, and evident questions, he leans forward. "Awright, let's have Spy's number. Get this over with so I can get to sleep already."

Sniper blinks at him for a few seconds, hazily, before his face turns golden again like Scout remembers it, all softness, and suddenly they could be back, all those lives and incarnations ago, smoking out on the overhangs and talking about frivolous things. In the same way Medic means it, Scout wants to assure him, it sure was something to get his heart broken by the man.

Sniper scribbles it on a napkin and passes it over. And there is a vague recognition. Of Champagne, of retirement, and Scout thinks he would be all the better to hear Spy's voice just once more.

He goes to dial, but halts himself, and stops, frozen. "You treat him like a  _goddamn prince_ , y'hear me? Jus –be good to him, yeah. You owe him that much." And then, looking up at him with a smile full of resentment and compassion. "An' if you leave, make up a goodbye. Or at least, pretend you have one."

"I will." Sniper nods to him. "I will: I'll be good to him."

And in the end, it's only on the precarious sincerity of those words that influences Scout's hand to dial. Sniper watches Scout's face for something, and after a while of the receiver to his ear, done with the operator, his face lights up like July.

"Jesus, it's good to hear your voice." he squeaks, overjoyed. "Jesus, y'sound good. You really do. I -uh, I guess you know why I'm callin'."

His eyes meet Sniper's. Scout, in all of his thinness, and pride and everlasting love: standing tall as if to declare once more, look at me now.

"No, there ain't a gun to my head." Some laughter. "There ain't! I'm smarter than that, y'know." A pause extends, with Scout searching the air whilst listening. He breaks with laughter. "Real funny, wiseass. I'm tryin' t'be serious."

The moments are exhausting. "Really. I want you to be happy. I do. I mean, if that asshole really makes you that happy-..it's worth searchin' for, alright? And...an' don't let go, once you do."

It takes an eternity for the call to end. It seems= to drag on like open highway, but at the close, there is rest, and peace. Scout puts down the phone in the way he let go of Danny's hand, the last time.

"It's done." He says, looking up. There is a smile in his yes. "Now would'ja kindly get the hell outta my place?"

Snipe peels his jacket off the seat, and looks back at Scout. "Funny to think I came all this way for that."

"Funny," Scout echoes him, bleakly. "Get the hell outta my bar, y'louse." They smile at eachother for one last time. When Sniper does turn to go, panic rises in Scout, and he lifts a hand. "Hey, Sniper?"

The man turns for him.

"We ain't done seein' eachother, awright? I hope you make him goddamn happy."

Sniper shrugs at him, so careless, so youthful for a man five years older than last they knew eachother. What does it matter? Time marches on anyway.

"I hope I do, too." he laughs. "Just for the record, though-..."

Scout knows where it's going almost immediately. But like an unstoppable bullet, he lets it run it's course. "You think we could ever have given it another go?"

It is the most rewarding thing in the world to laugh, and to laugh hard at that. And maybe they will see eachother again, but maybe they won't, and Scout thinks he'd like to leave it there like that, the final chapter, the last page, the blank verse, in which he dies, at least in Sniper's mind, laughing.

(And after, creeping up half-known steps, Scout takes off his shoes and his clothes in the dark, slipping into bed warm as the bread in his Ma's kitchen, feeling something even warmer besides him.

The lights are out and not even eyes, dark as the diamonds of the jungle, can glisten in the blackout. The girl stirs.

"Shh. Get back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake ya." Scout slips in right besides her and sighs. "I didn't mean for you to wake."

"I gathered," She says, softly, mewling through a yawn. "Why are you so late up?"

The lie occurs as he tells it, but even the best is open to the prejudices of the girl in the dark., with whom the lies are hard to slip in. She is by no stretch of any word 'easy'. "Guy wouldn't leave."

"My gun is in the deposit box."

"I got rid of him, didn't I?"

"As you like it." And the girl turns onto her back and looks up at the starless ceiling. "I'm out to Vienna in April."

"How long'll you be?"

"Oh," She smiles. "Nothing you can't  _bear_ , I assure you."

There is another pause.

"Jenny?"

She yawns.

"Jenny?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

The girl smiles in the dark. "I'm still going to Vienna." And then, as if dragged out of her: "Yes," She sighs, noisily. "I  _suppose_  I love you, too."

She kisses him goodnight, quick and tired, but all the truer, for he doesn't have to beg it from her. "Who was it downstairs?"

Scout makes a shallow grave for the boy he was, and for all of the ghosts he kissed too hard. Godspeed and never let them doubt, he prays, never let them doubt for a second that he loved them.

"Nobody, really." Scout says to her, sure of it now – _certain_. "It was nobody."

 

**Author's Note:**

> yeaah buddy.


End file.
